


It Doesn't Come From a Store

by notunbroken



Category: Major Crimes (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-09-02 12:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16786624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notunbroken/pseuds/notunbroken
Summary: Sparks fly when Sharon's planning committee for the LAPD Christmas party gains an unexpected member.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's a fic inspired by everyone's favorite saccharine, sunny, cable Christmas movies. You'll forgive me for re-using OCs...I'm sticking with a headcanon here. As far as I know, the LAPRRA isn't a real thing, but experience tells me something like it probably exists.

“Welcome, everyone, to the LA Police Relief and Recreation Association fall and winter planning meeting. We’re headed into our busiest season, but we’ve already had a huge year, with more events and donations than ever. That’s all thanks to you.”

A light applause patters around the room. “As a reminder, next month we’ll be taking nominations for 1999’s officers, so start thinking about whether you’d like to throw your hat in the ring.” 

Brad Kennan pauses in the middle of his spiel to fix Sharon with a firm look. She meets him with a grin. It’s _possible_ she’d nudged him toward running for the LAPRRA presidency last year, thus leading him into his current speech. The group had been mismanaged for years, with internal squabbling and loose purse strings turning it into a veritable soap opera. Brad is responsible, level-headed, and free of parental duties. He’s also the closest thing Sharon has to a partner in IA, which, to her, made him the perfect candidate.

Working the crowd, he gestures toward the long table at the front of the room, where Sharon and three other LAPRRA members sit. “We have four big events coming up, and that’s where we’ll need all of you to help out. In late October, we’ll have the Halloween party, chaired by Luke Gilbert — give ‘em a wave, Luke.” Brad laughs as Luke grudgingly waggles his fingers. “Okay, then in mid-November we have the Cops for Kids 5k up in Griffith Park.” With an outstretched arm, he adds, “The chair for the race is Sergio Trent. Then, of course, in the middle of December we have the Christmas shindig — one of our biggest fundraisers — led by the one and only Sharon Raydor.” Brad directs jazz hands in her direction before he moves on. “And, finally, the New Year’s celebration, with Karen Young serving as the first-time chairwoman.” 

With their options announced, murmurs of conversation float forward from the assembled audience of about fifty people. Before he loses their attention, Brad lays out the committee assignment process that he’d sketched out with Sharon’s help. “Okay, to make sure each group gets a mix of veteran help and… fresh perspectives, let’s say, we’re going to use the LAPRRA volunteer master list,” he holds up a clipboard, “to call everyone up in waves, from most experienced to least.” Turning the list into a pointer, directs it around the room. “I trust all of you old-timers to not bunch up in one group, but I won’t hesitate to voluntell you into a different line, if necessary. Sound good?”

Despite a lack of response, Brad pushes onward. “Okay! Let’s start with our 10-event-plus volunteers, you know who you are. Come on up and take your pick.”

As Brad calls up the less experienced volunteers, four lines form before the committee leaders at the head table. The new process works well; Sharon greets a succession of familiar faces at the front of the queue. As each of them pauses to fill out a contact form, she surveys the length of each line. Although the 5k group appears to have a few extra heads at the end, they remain mostly even. Her plan — _their_ plan — had worked.

Sharon is introducing herself to the last few people in her line when the door at the back of the room creaks open. The sound pairs with a just-familiar voice asking, “Uh, is this the LAPRRA meeting?”

Joining in the wave of craning necks and lifting heads, Sharon turns to find an astonishing sight: Sergeant Andy Flynn, with his hands hidden in the pockets of a black leather jacket. His eyes sweep the room. If he hadn’t specifically asked about the R and R, Sharon would’ve assumed he was lost. 

As it is, she can’t imagine what he’s doing here.

Brad, in contrast, recovers quickly, stretching on a wide smile. “Hey, Sergeant. It is. Welcome.” He gestures toward the head table, where only the greenest of first-time volunteers remain in line. “We’re just finishing sign-ups for our end-of-year events, if that’s what you’re…” He trails off with his voice rising into a question, no doubt seeing the improbability of the suggestion he’s about to make. 

But, around the toothpick poking from the corner of his mouth, Flynn says, “Yeah. I’m here to help.” He completes the look with an exaggerated shrug.

“Right, of course.” After offering a tight nod, Brad turns toward the head table, weighing the options. Sharon finds herself holding a breath while he decides, shuffling a stack of completed forms into a neat pile. She looks up to catch his brow wrinkling, the moment before he says, “Well, how about the Christmas party planning committee?”

Sharon’s mouth drops open. It takes every bit of control she has to keep her initial reaction, _No!_ , from escaping her. “Um, I’m not sure…”

“I do believe the Christmas Crew ends up asking for more help every year,” Brad cajoles. 

Her cheeks warm. He has a point. That doesn’t mean she has to like it. Looking down, she examines her list of volunteers, which seems to have shrunk by two or three names this year. 

Flynn’s voice floats from the back of the room, unmistakable. “Jeez, this is worse than being picked last for dodgeball in gym class.” His crack earns a chorus of snickers.

Sharon’s face goes warmer. But with a deep breath, she accepts her fate. “Sure,” she says, lifting her shoulder. She nods toward Flynn. “That’d be great.”

“Right on,” Brad says. “Sergeant Flynn, if you’ll just have a seat for now, we’ll have you fill out your volunteer form at the end of the meeting.” 

The rest of the items on Brad’s agenda might as well be white noise, for all Sharon absorbs. Her attention is filled by visions of how her normally well planned and flawlessly executed party might go up in flames. Literally, knowing her newest team member. 

Her preoccupation only breaks when a chorus of scraping chair feet marks the meeting’s end. From Sharon’s left, Karen Young leans in. “I think I got a pretty good group, how about you?’

“Yes, we had a good turnout. Lots of hard workers, plenty of experienced helpers.” To her approaching surprise supplement, Sharon adds, with more volume, “And _then_ there’s Andy Flynn.”

“You gotta say my name like that, Lieutenant? You’re gonna give me a complex.”

“God forbid.” Sharon hands him a pen and a clipboard bearing a volunteer form. As he begins jotting his contact information, she can’t help but appraise his presence. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you at an R and R meeting before, Sergeant.”

“That’s because I’ve never been to one.”

“Yes.” Her voice cuts across the word. “That’s my point.”

“What?” He glances up from circling his preferred meeting times. “Is there some application process I missed? Do you and your merry band of elves need to jump me into the gang?”

Despite the jab, Sharon finds herself biting her cheek, fending off a laugh. The image of Flynn in the center of a circle of volunteers, cowering in a hail of tinsel and ribbon spools and ball ornaments is a not-unenjoyable one. Add in a hot glue gun and some glitter for a festive variation on tar and feathers…maybe it would work to even out the trouble he’s caused her, through the years.

“Uh-oh.” His voice, in its wry glory, cuts through her imagination. “I was expecting a quick, ‘no, of course not, Sergeant.’”

“Hm, you should know better than to give me ideas.” He flashes her a surprised smile — a surprisingly real smile. It reaches his eyes. She clears her throat before her attention can stick on the unfamiliar sight. “So, what brings you to us now?”

Flynn shrugs. “My captain told me I could use some volunteer work for my lieutenant’s application.”

“I see.”

 _There it is._

Every year, one or more newcomers show up to the Christmas Party Committee, hoping to pad out their resumes in search of a promotion. Without fail, those volunteers end up going through the motions, bringing only slightly more good than harm to the process. 

And that’s if they don’t drop out altogether.

“Here you go, LT.” Flynn hands the clipboard over with a smug grin. A scan of the page shows he’s actually, shockingly, completed it in whole. 

“Thank you.” Sharon taps the board against her palm. “I’ll be in touch when I find a time for our first meeting.”

He nods and tosses up a lazy salute before he heads for the door. Brad steps into his wake, wearing a wide-eyed smile. “So?”

Sharon aims a point at his chest and whispers, “You _owe_ me.

“Oh c’mon, you still have a full committee without Flynn. He’s just a bonus.”

“A _bonus?_ ” Many words come to mind when she considers Andy Flynn. ‘Bonus’ is not one of them.

“Sure, another set of hands. And at least you know what to expect from him.” Brad crooks a thumb toward the Halloween group, streaming from the room in a pack. “I couldn’t foist him on an unsuspecting lab tech like Gilbert”

“Why not?”

“Look, I don’t trust anyone else to keep an eye on him. And you do have a couple months to whip him into shape.”

“There’ll be no _whipping_ , Brad.” Sharon’s gaze floats to the door. “As much potential as that idea holds.”

“And here I was, figuring you blackmailed him into service after that whole running-a-guy-over debacle.

She snorts. “If I did that, I’d never have a shortage of help.”

“Image rehab, then?”

“Mm, Sergeant Flynn apparently wants to be Lieutenant Flynn.”

“Wow,” Brad chuckles. “That might take more than a Christmas party.”

“Maybe.”

“You figure he’ll actually show up?”

Sharon drags her eyes across Flynn’s handwriting again. “I give him a month before he disappears on us.”

“Well, good luck in the meantime,” Brad says, backing away, wearing a grin that could only be considered devious.

She sniffs. “I still can’t believe you did this to me.”

His laugh rings through the now mostly empty room. “Consider it payback.”


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Sharon pulls into the garage at home, she’s decided the curveball thrown into her carefully laid plans-for-planning is more absurd than anything else. It isn’t as if a single member of her committee — one who’ll probably bail after a few meetings — can ruin her entire party, let alone her entire Christmas. There’s too much to anticipate in the approaching season.

The fall’s evening air is still warm, pleasantly so. But, before long, the days will shorten and the sun’s daily descent will bring a breath of coolness to the nights. Her calendar will fill with recitals and parties; her to-do list will be peppered with offerings for carry-ins and gift exchanges. Lights and wreaths will gild the city. By December, her heart will tug toward the east, homeward, delivering a nostalgia that she can only recapture amid her parents and siblings.

A trip isn't going to happen this year. But, with the kids, Sharon plans to make the most of her local holiday.

With that in mind, she assesses the side of the house for Christmas light potential before pushing the door open. Inside, she finds Gavin and Ricky at the kitchen sink, the latter with dish soap bubbles up to his elbows.

His eyes brighten. “Mom!”

“Hi, honey.” He hops the few feet between them and wraps his still-damp arms around her waist. Sharon returns the hug, her voice muffling into his hair when she says, “Are you being helpful?

“He most certainly is,” Gavin explains. “We just finished up the dishes.”

“I see.” Her brow lifts. “You made dinner?”

“Yeah, Uncle Gavin made us gazab… uh… gapach…” Ricky trails off with a concentrated frown.

“Gazpacho,” Gavin offers.

“Yeah, that, and these awesome crispy cheese things?”

“Ooh.” Sharon reaches out to brush his hair back from his forehead. “Cheese is always a winner in this house.”

“Uh-huh,” Ricky agrees, even as he ducks away from her hand.

Gavin nods at him. “And we managed to save some for your mom.”

“No thanks to the Bottomless Pit over there,” Emily snipes as she passes through the kitchen.

As Ricky’s face crumples toward outrage, Sharon calls after her, “That’s inappropriate, Emily Carolyn!”

Her daughter meets the reprimand with silence. The wall blocks whatever nonverbal response she receives. Squeezing Ricky’s shoulder, she trades an eye roll with Gavin. “Teenagers.”

“I’m not gonna be like that, Mom.”

“Oh, honey,” she leans down — barely — to press a kiss to Ricky’s forehead. Quickly passing time will tell whether he’s right. For now, though…“How about you stay just like _this_?”

His gaze lifts in thought. “Only if I can still go to Space Camp when I _should_ be fourteen.”

Sharon meets this long ago promise, never forgotten, with a serious nod. “That seems only fair.”

“All right!” His attention turns to the living room when Emily yells a question.

“Where’s the Toy Story tape?”

“It’s over by the—” He pauses in his answer, then sets off toward his sister’s voice. “It’s in the rewinder, right?”

“And he’s off.” Gavin turns toward the counter. “Let’s get you set up with some dinner, hmm?”

Sharon exhales a laugh at the prospect of being served in her own kitchen. “Gavin, you don’t need to—”

He tuts, guiding her to the table and into a chair. “It’s the least I can do. You deserve to have someone do the cooking every once in a while.”

“So that’s why you made dinner instead of ordering the pizza I left cash for?”

“Indeed.” He delivers a plate to her seat. It’s scattered with the lauded cheese crisps; a bowl at its center holds a chunky mixture of chopped vegetables. “Plus, I figured you _prefer_ to feed your children something that didn’t roll off an assembly line.”

She shakes her head at the sight, muttering, “I can’t believe you got them to eat this.”

“Oh,” he shrugs. “You know how it is. Everything’s fun and exciting when Uncle Gavin comes over.”

Sharon grins at the truth in this. She long ago learned he’s the one and only sitter they won’t whine about.

“Speaking of fun and exciting…” His trailing silence leaves him turning from the counter with a bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses. “I brought a treat.”

As he unearths the corkscrew from her drawer of kitchen gadgets, Sharon asks, “Is that your—”

“Last bottle of ‘96 Tamber Bey Sauvignon Blanc? From my trip to Calistoga?”

“I thought you were saving that.”

“I _was_ saving it. For a special occasion.” With a few twists and a pull, the cork pops free from the bottle. Gavin pours two servings and hands one to Sharon. More quietly, he adds, “Such as the finalization of a dear friend’s separation from her leech of a husband.” He clinks his glass to hers.

Sharon obliges his celebratory gesture, inhaling a waft of cool citrus air from the glass before taking a sip. The occasion tips the wine’s green apple tartness into a sour trail down the back of her throat.

She settles the glass onto her placemat, then turns it along the fabric. “Jack didn’t even contest the terms. Is that a victory?”

“Of course it is. It’s cleaner that way.”

“Yes, but…”

“But?”

Her view of the separation is complex. Even as the process leaves Sharon secure in her home and what remains of her savings, the decision to cleave apart her family has been agonizing. It was a finality, an admission that no amount of begging or shouting or sobbing could keep Jack from leveraging their future for another round of cards.

Even so, his absence claws at her, every night and most every day. By bringing law into the equation, by creating witnesses to the crumbling plaster behind his professional facade, Sharon only ensured he’ll never return. In response, his silence, his distance, and his absolute lack of emotional output have combined to form a malicious blow. It lands upon her over and over.

Gavin nudges her hand. “Sharon?”

She sways her head, sloughing off her darkened mood. With a lifted shoulder, she says, “Part of me just can’t accept that he didn’t put up more of a fight.”

On a heavy sigh, he leans in. “Jack is obviously facing several major problems,” he murmurs. “That doesn’t change that he’s an ass and a coward. You did everything you could.”

His assurance leaves emotion pressing at her eyes. Rather than answer, she reaches for her glass. The wound is too fresh, she supposes, for the bandage of her best efforts to have any healing effect.

Gavin settles back into his seat, mirroring her motion. “You deserve _all_ the happiness, dear. And now maybe you can focus on chasing that down.” After a sip, he hums. “Perhaps starting by spreading your Christmas cheer to the masses. How was your meeting?”

 _Yes, we could use a change of topic_. Sharon takes a draw of wine before saying, “I promise you _will not_ believe who ended up on my committee.”

“Is it that creepy JTTF guy?” He snaps his fingers on remembering, “Nelson? The one who has the hots for you?”

“Oh. No.” Leave it to Gavin to remind her it could always be worse. “Thank goodness.”

“Ooh, is it Pope?”

For some reason, Gavin is enthralled by Will Pope and his pretentious air. He has a never-ending and increasingly outrageous list of theories on how the man ended up in LA. 

Memory of his many speculations leaves an unglamorous bark of a laugh escaping Sharon’s mouth. “ _No_. The R and R is _far_ beneath the Deputy Chief’s stature.”

“Such a shame, I could use the intel.” Unfazed, he adds another guess. “Is it someone who’s thrown a punch at you?”

Sharon meets the question with a hiss before leaning forward, peering into the living room. She finds the kids sitting in front of the TV, staring up at a cartoon.

He waves away her concern, “Oh, they’re not listening to us.”

“ _Still_.” Faced with his cluelessness, she offers a neon-bright hint. “‘Honk if you love Jesus?’”

“Oh, Sergeant Flynn!” Gavin’s smile at solving her riddle fades into a shrug. “He’s harmless, mostly.”

“ _Mostly_ ,” Sharon echoes.

“Well, _you_ may not be his favorite person, but he does have a soft side.”

She snorts. “I can’t imagine where he might be hiding it.”

Half into his glass, Gavin says, “Somewhere under those nice suits of his.” At Sharon’s shocked grimace, he adds, “What? I’m allowed to notice my clients’ sartorial qualities.”

“If you say so.”

“C’mon, you have to admit he clothes himself well.”

“I suppose.” As she swirls her wine, Sharon considers Flynn’s many visits to her office. “Though I don’t think any number of three-piece suits can make up for what I’ve seen in his file.”

“Well, no, but you haven’t had to add to it lately, have you?”

“He _ran_ someone _over_. In his LAPD vehicle.”

“It was self-defense!”

“Only thanks to your brilliant legal mind.”

“Nonsense. It was a good…” He breaks off, directing a thoughtful stare at his glass. “What’s the vehicular version of a ‘good shooting,’ Ms. FID?”

Sharon hums through a mouthful of wine. With most of the bottle drained, the edges of her attention have softened, allowing her to laugh through explaining, “There’s no such thing!”

“Maybe there should be,” he chuckles. With barely repressed laughter, he adds, “Tell your policy-making friends. You can call it the Flynn Maneuver!”

“I…” The absurdity of the suggestion leaves Sharon rubbing her eyes, trying to fight back a giggle. It breaks through, anyway, aided by the mental image of ‘the Flynn Maneuver’ listed in a tactical manual. “It would have to be… really, _really_ well defined… just so there’s no _confusion_ as to what the term means.”

“Well, the directions are simple…”

“Start the car, put it in drive, hit the gas?”

Gavin opens his mouth, only to double over again. He recovers and ekes out, “Wait for the thud!”

Sharon rests her forehead on the table, clutching her sides. She gathers herself just long enough to say, “I don’t think we even need guns anymore!”

“Mom, can we have some pop—” Emily appears in the doorway and comes to a stop. Her eyes sweep the room, taking in a cackling Gavin and Sharon muffling her laughter into the tablecloth. She mouths _wow_ and backs out of the room, adding, “Why are you guys so _weird_?”

Sharon ignores her question and wipes water from her cheeks. On a long sigh, she says, “Oh, I really shouldn’t be joking about this.”

“Why not?” Gavin splits the remaining wine between their glasses before lifting his own in a toast. “Take the humor where it comes, I say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters on this one are (hopefully) gonna come quick and random.


	3. Chapter 3

Several weeks later, Sharon corrals her committee into an all-hands meeting. With end-of-year paperwork and deadlines piling up, she’d had to call them in on a Saturday morning. The request brings most everyone together in street clothes, with the exception of two uniformed patrol officers and a besuited Sergeant Flynn. The latter sheds his jacket and plops a tall styrofoam cup onto the table as Sharon moves from chitchat into the meat of the discussion.

“As many of you know, I like to split our group into subcommittees when we get into the actual work of planning the party. It makes life easier for everyone when finding times to meet.” Across the table, Flynn sinks lower into his seat, his gaze fixed on the overhead lights. As she narrows her eyes at him, Sharon continues, “But first, we need to decide on a theme.”

Ally Nevasky, a narcotics detective far too crusty for her age, raises her hand. “Yeah, so, I was thinking the North Pole.”

“Ally, that’s a great idea,” Sharon gives herself a moment before adding, “but it’s _also_ almost exactly what we did last year.”

“Right. Meaning we could use the exact same decorations, set up in the exact same way, and save ourselves a bunch of time and headache.” She holds out her hands as if displaying her inarguable logic. “Besides, I’m _pretty sure_ there’s been more than one Nutcracker party.”

“Correct,” Sharon clips out, “four years apart.” Still, she notes Ally’s suggestion. “Any other ideas?”

The group meets her question with silence and averted eyes. She lets it stretch for a moment before prodding. “Anyone?” The lack of answer leaves her flattening a frown.

 _Every year_.

Every year she’s run the party, Sharon has ended up naming the theme. Last year, it was Santa’s Workshop. Before that, The Nutcracker, part deux. The Polar Express. Gingerbread village. Christmas at the beach. Ski chalet. And, yes, The Nutcracker, original version.

Her avoidance of Ally’s suggestion isn’t about control. It’s about _caring_ , avoiding the easy, lazy choice. Sharon wants the party to be fun and novel for the attendees. It’s one of the R and R’s biggest fundraisers, after all, and the hundreds of tickets the team sells every year keep the group’s coffers full for months.

She draws a deep breath as the room remains quiet. “Well, if there’s no—”

At the same time, Flynn says, “What if we—” But he cuts off his suggestion at Sharon’s words.

 _Flynn, with an idea?_ Her eyes widen at the prospect. But she says, “Please,” and casts her palm in his direction, even as she braces herself. “Go ahead.”

“I was thinking the Grinch.”

If it’s possible for a soul to sigh, this is what flows from Sharon’s mouth. The exhale seems to stem from her toes. “The Grinch.”

 _Of_ course _. If anyone’s going to be Grinchy…_

“Yeah,” he levers himself into an upright position. “Or, like, the town where those muppet things from The Grinch live.”

“The Whos,” Nevasky supplies.

Flynn’s brow furrows. “Huh?”

“‘The Whos down in Whoville,’” Sharon quotes. “You’re thinking of a Whoville theme.”

“Sure. Right.” He shrugs. “Anyway. It’s kind of a classic. And it definitely has a look to it.”

“Yes it does.” Sharon taps her pen against her legal pad. It’s an intriguing idea. Unique, allows for plenty of creativity. It’s flexible, non-denominational. Checks all the boxes. “Any objections to Whoville?”

Nevasky rolls her eyes, but with no other obvious signs of disagreement, Sharon circles the theme in her notes. “Okay, Whoville it is.” She digs into the next step with the flip of a page. “We’ll have six subcommittees: venue, ticket sales, refreshments, music, rentals, and decorations.”

After pausing to let the options sink in, she starts down the list. “The venue subcommittee is straightforward, and it’s a one-person job: Make sure the FOP hall is booked for the second Saturday in December, arrange to pay the deposit and fee, and run through the preparation checklist on the morning of the party.”

Sharon scans the room, trying not to let her eyes stick on Flynn. He’d be perfect for the job. She’s half-tempted to volun-tell him. No group interactions, no assembly or crafting required. Just a few errands, really. It’d be an easy way for him to contribute.

Instead, in the trailing quiet, Bob Rambert raises his hand. Sharon takes her time in surveying the opposite side of the room before swinging her gaze to him.

She forces lightness into her voice. “Oh, Bob, great. I’ll get you noted here.” When she looks up from noting his task, he’s still holding his hand in the air. “Yes?”

“Um, what day is the party, again?”

Stretching on a smile, Sharon says, “It’s the second Saturday in December, every year. This time it’s the 12th.”

Bob’s brow creases. “Right, right.”

Despite the unease kicked off by his question and response, Sharon continues down the page. “For ticket sales, Dawn needs two helpers to advertise the event and arrange to sell—”

Sharon breaks off when a pair of young women raise their hands in the back corner. They’re first-timers. “Okay, your names?”

“Melissa Hobart.”

“Rebecca Taylor.”

“Perfect, thank you.” Looking up from her clipboard, Sharon says, “Next up is the refreshments subcommittee, which Alex Kippering will be leading.”

As Alex directs a halfhearted wave to the rest of the group, Flynn leans in his direction. “Hey, Kipper, can you try to keep meat out of at least one of the main dishes this year?” When half the room turns to look at him, he adds, “What? Vegetarians exist.”

Again, Sharon has to admit, “That’s a good suggestion.”

Alex shrugs. “Sure. No problem.”

“Okay,” Sharon returns her attention to the larger group. “We need two people to help with refreshments and tableware.”

Two hands appear. Again, neither of them are Flynn’s.

“Perfect,” Sharon says, jotting down the names. “Next, Julie needs someone to assist in arranging a band and setting up equipment at the—”

Rod Varro, Julie’s significant other, raises his hand whip-quick. As she notes the now-completed music subcommittee, Sharon moves onto the next with a new urgency. “Adam will arrange the rentals for our tables and chairs. His team will cover set-up on the Friday before the party and tear-down on Sunday morning.” As a few unassigned helpers trade wary looks, she specifies, “Everyone who isn’t one of the two people helping Adam will default to my decorating group.”

Sobricki and Lisson raise their palms. They’re Christmas party veterans, ‘helpers’ she’s not disappointed to see opt out of helping with decorations.

Still, that leaves Sharon with a ragtag team for making Whoville a reality. After sending the subcommittees to group up and waving Rambert on his way, she considers the list. Pete Nakayama is a LAPRRA party luminary — he could easily work in set design if he didn’t have such a knack for forensic accounting. Eric Edel, from the lab, should be good for at least a few meetings before his attention wanders. Nevasky can be a hard worker, though her critical eye has a tendency to stray from the task at hand. A young patrol officer — Sharon shuffles contact forms until she finds the only unfamiliar name, Caroline Shaughnessy — is a fresh addition.

And as for Flynn?

Well… as Brad said, he’s just a bonus.

At the sight of her assembled team, Sharon is mostly relieved. “Ally, Pete, Eric, I’m so glad to have your help again this year.” She nods to the other two. “And we‘re lucky to be joined by Andy Flynn and Caroline Shaughnessy.”

Flynn angles toward the young officer. “Good Irish name.”

Sharon rolls her eyes at his comment, no doubt meant to be a come-on. “As long as there aren’t any major changes to anyone’s schedules from the LAPRRA volunteer forms you filled out a few weeks ago, I’ll use these to schedule our next meeting.”

“Sounds good,” Eric says, speaking for the consensus.

“I think,” Pete starts, rubbing at his chin, “I have an old recording of _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ at home, in our tape case. I could watch it, take some notes?”

“That would be a huge help, Pete.” Sharon flips to the October calendar at the back of her clipboard, weighing the weeks between now and mid-December. “We can meet again near the end of the month, discuss what you find, and nail down our ideas?” Faced with a round of nods, she grins. “Great, thanks everyone. I’ll be in touch.”

As the group filters toward the door, Flynn pauses, craning his neck to drain the last of his drink. When he steps past her to drop the cup into a trash can, Sharon decides to give him one final escape chute. “You’re okay with being on the decorating team, Sergeant?”

His brow creases. “Why wouldn’t I be?” In a perfect deadpan, he adds, “I gotta make sure this thing meets my creative vision, after all.”

“Ah, yes.” Even as the thought of him in design critic mode twists her lips, she asks, “So will you be contributing as a Who, or as the Grinch?”

“Ha- _ha_.” His sarcastic faux laugh pairs with a grudging grin. “I happen to have opinions on this party, as someone who forks out for a ticket every year.”

“Really?”

“Sure. My squad always goes together.” Flynn shrugs. “It’s nice, setting aside all the murder shi— _stuff_ for a while.” With that, his eyes flick toward the wall clock. “Ah, speaking of… I should probably get going before my captain starts paging me.”

Sharon wonders what sort of tragedy he’s investigating. Struck by a sudden sense of triviality, she curls her clipboard to her chest. “Well, thank you for taking a break to come down.”

“No problem, LT.” He slides his jacket back over his shoulders. “Catch you next time.”

She watches him go with a shake of her head. _Who would have thought?_ _And, more pressing: what to make of an earnest Andy Flynn?_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your Cherries on Snow Yankee Candle isn't the only thing burning slowly this holiday season.
> 
> S/o to my pineapple friend for testing out the extraness of this chapter.

In a meeting room at the near-silent Parker Center, Ally greets Sharon from the head of a long conference table, already cross-armed and glowering. “Are we gonna have weekend meetings all the way through? Because this is seriously starting to cramp my style.”

Pete stopped by FID offices earlier in the week to announce he’d finished his research. With Halloween creeping around the corner, Sharon had asked the decorating team to gather on another Saturday morning. Nine AM, a compromise between splitting up the day and ‘cramping someone’s style.’

“I might be able to find a few weeknights to meet, but everyone has different schedules.” At Ally’s deepening scowl, Sharon lifts a plate from her tote. “I brought cookies…”

This news does little to brighten Ally’s mood, though she does inventory the treats as Sharon arranges them across a smaller side table. After picking up a snickerdoodle, she heads for the door. “I’m going for a smoke while everyone else shows up.”

On her way out she passes Flynn, who trudges into the room with sunglasses blocking his eyes. Without offering a greeting, he plops a handle-topped box onto the cookie table, followed by a plastic bag. Markered handwriting on the cardboard — _Bob’s Breakfast Blend_ — provides context. He pushes his sunglasses up into his hair before twisting a lid from the front of the box and fishing a small paper cup from the bag.

Sharon watches this with a flattened grin. “Do you _always_ have coffee on your person, Sergeant?”

He doesn’t pause in his pouring, letting a lifted shoulder answer her question. With the coffee box back on the table, he elaborates: “Quit smoking, quit drinking. _Mostly_ gave up sugar. Plain ol’ black coffee is the only vice that helps me do my job, so it’s the only vice I still have.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that.”

He holds up another cup. “Can I pour you one?”

“Sure.”

With his attention pointed toward the task, he asks, “Cream? Sugar?”

“No sugar, just a little cream.”

He seals the box and cracks open a tiny bottle of cream from inside the bag. With a questioning look, he streams a split-second of liquid into the cup before Sharon says, “That’s good.” She tries to tamp down her under-caffeinated desperation as she reaches for the offered brew. “I’m guessing you’re Robbery-Homicide’s resident barista.”

“Nah, I leave those guys to their own devices.” Following a drink, his lips curl. “But I _have_ figured out the perks of knowing the boss’s coffee order.”

Sharon presses her tongue against her cheek, forcing her amusement away before asking, “So this is a bribe, then?”

“ _No_ ,” he pulls the denial long. “It’s _assistance_.”

“Oh, well.” A testing sip finds the coffee pleasantly hot and strong. She hums into the realization, tipping the cup in his direction. “Thanks for the help.”

“My pleasure.” He leans onto the table, peering across to the cookie trays.

“I thought you gave up sugar.”

“ _Mostly_.” He holds up a green-frosted sugar cookie. “You can’t expect me to turn down homemade goodies.”

Sharon lifts a brow. “That’s between you and your vices, I guess.”

It’s obvious, right away, that the quip misses its mark. The way his jaw tenses leaves her backtracking, “I mean…” She shakes her head. “Not that this is…”

“Yeah, whatever, LT.” He balances the cookie onto the rim of his coffee cup and moves to the far side of the conference table, stretching the distance between them as much as possible.

Ally reappears, chatting with Caroline in low tones. When they reach the coffee, Ally lets out a sigh that leaves her shoulders slumping. “Oh thank _God_.” 

Eric has a similar reaction when he plods through the door. He gathers caffeine and a handful of cookies before sinking into a chair at the table. But Pete enters like a ray of sunshine, bright-eyed, hauling plans in one hand and a travel mug in the other. Sharon watches him set up at the front of the room as she pours another cup of coffee and selects a blondie for dunking.

“Okay, so, I watched the movie, and…” Snapping magnets onto its corners, Pete mounts a poster covered with notes, sketches, small multicolor pom-poms, and a handful of color swatches. “I came with ideas.” He nods toward Flynn. “You made a good choice, Andy.”

 _Andy_. Given this probably unearned familiarity, Sharon braces for a retort, the beginnings of conflict within the group. It doesn’t come. Instead, Flynn lifts his cup in Pete’s direction, a silent show of recognition.

Despite the meeting’s rocky start, Sharon finds herself intrigued by his continued interest. Pete, meanwhile, launches into his findings. “So, overall, we’re going to want a lot of bright, peppy elements.” He points toward the swatches. “My suggestion is to move away from traditional Christmas colors, build the theme around,” he taps his way down the cards, “this vivid pink, light blue, bright green — Grinch-colored, of course — yellow, and red.”

Ally grumbles into her coffee, “So you’re saying we’re not gonna be able to use _any_ of our old decorations.”

As Pete’s gaze drops, Sharon reminds Ally, “We have more stuff in storage than we would ever need for one party.”

“That’s true,” Pete says, “we can use the trees, wreaths, anything red would be perfect, anything gold. We’ll have plenty of opportunities to put up anything that suggests snow, of course.”

“Sounds great.” Sharon offers him an encouraging smile. She nods toward his poster. “Looks like you have some Who-specific ideas?”

“I do!” He turns back to the board, pointing to a pink-and-white hued sketch. “All the houses in Whoville are pink. Strong curvature, covered in snow.” He extends his arm, pulling his palm in a large circle. “I want to arrange these, in two semicircles, around the seating area at the party, to suggest our attendees are in the middle of town.”

“The king of cardboard construction,” Eric says.

Pete gives a half-bow, “I do what I can,” before clapping his hands together with renewed enthusiasm. “Now, at the big moment of the movie, when Christmas comes to Whoville and the Whos all start singing, there’s this star thing,” he jabs at another drawing on his poster, “that rises up out of the town. I drew up some quick plans on how we could fabricate a lightweight, sparkly gold starburst to hang over the gathering, as a kind of centerpiece.”

In the front, Caroline lets out a long _ooh_. “I like that.”

“Good, because _this_ , not the Who houses, is our central element. I say we go mod with the rest of the decorations, as suggested by the movie. With this palette as a guide,” he gestures to the swatches, “though easy on the pink since we’ll already have a lot — I think we can pull the whole thing together.”

“Uh,” Flynn raises a hand, squinting toward Pete’s poster. “For those of us who _aren’t_ fluent in design whatever, what’s ‘mod?’”

“Retro, 60s style.” When this earns a continued blank expression, Pete elaborates, “Pom-pom garland. Angular ribbons. Oh, those cute little snowflake cutouts would fit in. Starbursts, like I said. Swirls, circles, swooping lines; bright colors, of course—”

“Ah,” Flynn breaks into the list with a frowning nod, “yeah, okay.” But, when Pete’s attention returns to the board, Flynn fixes Ally with a wide-eyed, slack-jawed shake of his head.

“I’m sure we’ll all get a better sense for the specifics once we get started.” Sharon drags her clipboard close. “But first, we need to see what we’ll be able to use from storage and what we’ll need to order or make before the party, to meet Pete’s vision.”

“Ah, _Andy’s_ vision,” Pete corrects.

“Pete and Andy’s vision,” Sharon says, not looking up from the calendar. “And we need to get moving soon, before the Halloween team crowds back into storage.” She shoots an apologetic smile at Caroline before asking, “I know this won’t work for everybody, but would we be able to do an inventory on Tuesday evening? Around five?”

Amidst a line of nods, Flynn’s answer is wary. “Yeah, as far as I know…”

Sharon lifts her palms. “Work comes first. If you get a case, you get a case. That goes for everyone.”

“Then sure. Tuesday’s fine.”

“Great.” She jots the appointment into a square marking October’s final week. “Caroline, we’ll catch up with you when we start on the fun stuff.”

“Wow,” Ally pokes at Caroline’s shoulder. “Look at you, getting a pass.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure it’ll _feel_ like a pass when I’m locking up some crackhead and you’re all untangling Christmas lights.”

This earns a laugh from Flynn as he pushes back from the table. “Ah, the joys of patrol.”

Eric, looking much more awake than when he showed up, says, “I hear you’ll look back on these days fondly, at some point.”

“Right.” Caroline rolls her eyes. “I’d like to fast-forward to that day, please.”

Before the meeting dissolves on its own, Sharon reiterates, “Meet here, at, let’s say, 5:30 on Tuesday.”

She gets enough of a response to believe her directive sinks in. While Pete folds up his poster and Caroline sets into describing a recent arrest, Sharon combines what’s left of her cookies onto a single plate. She brushes crumbs and sprinkles from the table, gathers the emptied plates into a pile. When she turns from the trash, she finds Flynn headed away from the rest of the group.

Without sparing time to consider the move, Sharon steps into his path. “Please, take a few cookies with you.”

His eyes travel from her face, to a point on the far wall, and back. He grits, “You think I wasn’t serious about not eating sugar?”

“I know you were serious. About _all_ of it.” It’s the only olive branch she’s able to grasp, at the moment. “But, like you said, these are homemade.” She raises the cookie-bearing plate to his chest. “You can save them for a rainy day.”

The core of his expression stays dark, even as his lips lift. “Wouldn’t you know it? We’re in LA. Blue skies across the board.”

He steps around her, grabs the remains of his coffee and makes for the door, folding the box under his arm like a running back headed for the endzone. Sharon wouldn’t be surprised if he stiff-armed an unwitting passerby on his way out of Parker Center. _Finally showing his true colors_ , she thinks.

It’s almost a relief.


	5. Chapter 5

By the point Sharon reaches the conference room on Tuesday evening, she’s realized it would’ve been smart to pack a change of clothes.

There are days, though, when she doesn’t have time for smart. Sometimes there’s only the mental equivalent of sprinting. An AWOL pointe shoe and overlooked spelling homework had crowded all sense from her morning. Even after taking the extreme step of turning Pop Tarts into breakfast for herself and the kids, she’d been lucky to get to her desk by nine. Therefore, her gym bag and its good intentions still rest by the back door, undisturbed from where she dropped it last night.

Improvisation is the day’s theme. She pulls her hair into a high ponytail, repositions bobby pins to tame the escapees. A chair at the table works as a spot to stash her blazer, and she’d swapped her pumps for flats up in the office. With her transformation from detective to party planner complete, she turns with a smile when footsteps sound in the doorway.

What she finds leaves the expression frozen on her face. Flynn, sans jacket and tie, displaying an uncharacteristic rumpledness in wrinkled shirt and slacks, marks the only person to show up before the clock ticks to 5:30. His appearance suggests he’s spent several long days at the office.

_Great_. With the end of their last meeting in mind, Sharon fixes him with a steady stare and a cool, “What, no coffee today?”

Unfazed, he rushes through his answer, “Nah, I’ll actually have to sleep tonight,” and barely pauses before continuing. “Look, Lieutenant, I’m sorry about the other day. You didn’t deserve me getting all pissy with you.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I guess there’s stuff I still take too personally.”

She busies herself with re-stacking the notes from her clipboard as she keeps hold of her calm. “Sobriety is a serious thing, Sergeant. I shouldn’t have been flippant about—”

“No, really,” he raises a palm, “it was me. I overreacted.” With a shake of his head, he says, “No doubt, I was a train wreck for a couple of years, there. Got to the point where I couldn’t take jokes that hit too close to home.” He shrugs. “But who wants to be _that_ asshole? I definitely don’t.”

“If your squad room is anything like mine, that’s probably a good idea.”

“Ah, so IA brings the laughs, huh?”

“We’re not soulless bureaucrats, despite what everyone thinks.” Which is true, even if a recent intrasquad practical joke war ended with one of the combatants holding an official censure. Sharon frowns at the memory. “Not _all_ of us, anyway.”

“Of course.” The agreement falls short of full sincerity, but Flynn delivers it with a grin. “And, for the record, I will take any and all homemade cookies moving forward.”

She’s tempted to point out the boldness of his assumption, that she’d offer him anything else she’d spent time making, after last meeting’s snub. Instead she offers a hum and a vague nod as she turns to check the hallway. _Still empty_. She sighs, checks her watch. _5:35_.

“It might only be us to start.”

“Not a problem.” He falls into step as she heads down the hall. “Where are we going?”

“Just down to storage.”

“Down?”

“Yes.” She pats her hip, checking for her keys. “The R and R has a few rooms on sublevel one.”

“Sublevel,” he mutters. A stretch of silence passes between them before he adds, “So, uh, I didn’t even know Parker Center has a basement, let alone that LAPRRA is hanging out down there.”

If Sharon had to guess, she‘d say the waver across Flynn’s voice signals fear. “It _does_. Several, in fact. And we’re not ‘hanging out’ down there.”

“Oh. Huh.” He dips his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Interesting.”

With a smirk, she takes stock of the sight. “This isn’t the assignment for someone who’s afraid of dark, windowless spaces, Sergeant.” She stops at a nondescript door, turning to check the long stretch of hallway leading back to their meeting room.

“It’s not like I’m claustrophobic, or whatever.” He nods toward a water stain stretching across nearby ceiling tiles. “I just don’t trust this old heap, especially in a place that shakes as much as LA. That goes double for anything underground.”

“This building has passed its structural inspection every year since 1955.”

“Uh-huh, inspections done by city inspectors, doing city inspector shit.”

“So now you’re a conspiracy theorist?”

Rather than fire back, he slides on a lopsided grin. “I get the sense you don’t like me a whole lot, LT.”

Effectively called out, Sharon reels in her impulsive _You’re right_ , in favor of a more measured response. “I don’t really _know_ you.” She shrugs. “I know your IA file all too well, but isn’t who you are.”

“No. It isn’t.” Flynn’s eyes draw along the wall behind her until he’s staring down the hall. “I’ve made a lot of changes since most of that stuff happened, anyway.”

“That’s…” She’s not sure how she’s supposed to respond. Is this part of his image rehab? “That’s good.”

His only response is a shrug. Following his line of sight and finding the hallway still deserted, Sharon checks her watch. Ten minutes past their meeting time. With a sigh, she pulls a field notebook from her back pocket. After scrawling, _Christmas Team: Meet in basement storage_ , she tears the page from the binding and tucks its edge into the small window marking the door into the stairwell.

She turns back to Flynn. “Ready?”

His eyes go round, flit to the note, then to her face. “This feels like the beginning of one of those survival documentaries. Like a ‘I lived a week after the storage room door _just happened_ to close and lock behind me’ thing.”

On a shake of her head, she reaches to pull the door open. _Such a drama queen_. “Feel free to wait up here for everyone else, just be ready to explain why you stayed put.” She tosses a smirk over her shoulder. “I’m _sure_ they’ll understand.”

She isn’t more than halfway down the first flight of stairs when his heavy footfalls clang down to meet hers. “So you have a lot of stuff downstairs?”

“We have probably 30 bins filled with decorations, plus quite a few larger pieces.”

“Are they color-coded and arranged in alphabetical order?” he teases.

Rather than give him the satisfaction of her annoyance, Sharon stretches on a well-practiced smile as she sets down a corridor. “Pulling off this party every year requires a certain amount of organization, not to mention precision.” She turns into a blue-painted doorway bearing the stenciled inscription _LAPRRA_. While fishing into her pocket for the key, she adds, “If you prefer an above-ground, anything-goes experience, I’m sure the 5k committee could use another hand for water stations during the race.”

Flynn’s face scrunches into a grimace strong enough to suggest she’d just asked him to eat a cricket. “No way. I can’t be around running. I’m allergic.”

Sharon rolls her eyes as she pushes the door. For whatever reason, he’s dead set on haunting her Christmas team. _So be it_.

In the pitch black room, she scrabbles her fingers along a cinderblock wall until they scrape against the switchbox. A flick blinks the space into blue-hued, faintly flickering light.

A low whistle sounds from the doorway as Flynn takes in the rows and stacks of holiday gear. “Yeah, I’d say ‘a good start’ was an understatement.”

Against the far side of the room, a line of plastic tubs stand on metal shelving, stacked nearly to the ceiling. Sharon nods at the assortment of large decorations and bulky supplies blocking the way. “Let’s move these,” she points to the bare space at the right wall, “over here.”

To his credit, he sets to moving without question or protest. But, within a few shuffling armfuls, he says, “So you even have room to expand, huh?” At her questioning look, he clarifies, “With all this empty footage over here.”

“Oh. No.” Sharon drops a trio of wreaths next to a giant gingerbread girl cutout. “This half belongs to the Halloween party.” She heads back for another batch of greenery as he relocates a candy-striped pole. “Tomorrow, this place will get crowded again.”

“ _Again_?” Flynn balances this tease with a grin. “That’d be a sight.”

“Which is why we need to move the essentials out now.”

“Uh,” he holds up a stack of flattened boxes, staring at a sizable pile of the same. “I’m afraid to ask what you’re gonna do with these, once they’re full.”

“They aren’t meant to be filled.” Sharon points at the door. “Go ahead and leave them up here. We’ll re-use them for decorations.”

“Ah. That makes more sense.” As he moves the cardboard he asks, “So these are the leftovers from last year, I take it?”

She examines the partially cleared path toward the bins as her cheeks warm. “No, I bring boxes down from the recycling room every few months.”

“Huh.” The sarcastic response she’d expected doesn’t follow. Instead, he grins. “Thinking ahead has its perks, I guess.”

She returns the smile, half in spite of herself. “It does.”

They make several silent trips past one another before Flynn says, “You know, I didn’t mean to step on your toes, with the whole party theme thing.”

Sharon lifts a brow. “You didn’t step on my toes.”

“But you guys already had all of this stuff, and looks like we really won’t be able to use most of it.”

“Which doesn’t make it any different than any other idea we would’ve chosen.” When his stare narrows into skepticism, she adds, “This is the first year I haven’t had to dream up a theme on my own. It’s a nice change.” Thinking back to Pete’s plans, she admits, “I doubt I could’ve come up with something so creative.”

“Nothing wrong with having a weakness for the classics.” He holds up a cardboard ballerina silhouette. “Especially The Nutcracker, by the sound of it.”

After opening her mouth to answer, she pauses, considering the source. She drags her gaze to watch him sidelong as he props a bundle of silhouettes against the wall. “This isn’t the set-up to some crass joke, is it?”

Flynn tips his head back into an impressive eye roll. “Jeez, I’m just making small talk, okay?”

She lets a level hum stand as her acceptance. But, once she’s found a spot to stack spools of lights, she says, “My daughter dances ballet.” Without thinking, she adds, “Like I used to.” From the edge of her vision, she tries to ignore how his motion stills for a blink. “The Nutcracker has been part of my Christmases for a long, long time.”

He offers a quiet, but genuine, “Nice.”

With their efforts successful in clearing a walkway, Sharon makes her way over to the shelves. Flynn’s steps trail her, leading to where she squints up at the bins’ labels. His cologne — or maybe aftershave — floats to her nose, a sign of their odd proximity. They’re forced into close quarters, hemmed in between a thatch of skinny faux trees and a squad of cardboard elves.

“Okay,” Sharon says, “these are arranged lightest on top, heaviest on bottom—” A quiet chuckle interrupts her explanation. “What?” she asks.

“I mean, that’s pretty smart.”

She sniffs, inadvertently pulling in another noseful of his scent. “Well, I _have_ been doing this a while.”

“It shows.” He sidles past her, reaching for the nearest top-shelf bin, tipping it forward for leverage. “I’ll start on these.”

“Wait a second—”

“I got it, LT, piece of ca—”

He cuts off his assurance as the bin’s lid clatters to the floor at their feet, trailed by a 50-gallon shower of tinsel strands and garland. The shiny plastic tumbles onto and around them, seeming mostly to drape over Sharon’s head and shoulders.

Flynn’s response is a flat, “Oh.”

As she reaches up to rake faux icicles out of her eyes, she grits, “Like I was saying, some of these lids don’t fit tightly.”

“Got it.”

A downward glance finds her ankle-deep in garland. She can’t smother a snort. “Great.”

“Um, here, let me just,” Flynn drops the now-empty bin behind them before bending down to scoop up an armful of the decorations. He dumps them back into their rightful place, where the pile lands with a faint whoosh. On turning around, he says, “Oh, you’ve got some…”

“Some what?”

“Stuff in your hair,” he finishes. She brushes her hand over the top of her head, craning her neck toward an impossible view of the debris. “Here,” he says, “let me.”

“Thanks,” she mumbles as his fingers gently comb through her ponytail, making several passes. Again, his nearness is obvious. It sends an unwanted chill across her shoulders.

“Only fair that I handle the clean-up.” He takes a step back, dropping another handful of tinsel into the bin. “There you go.”

Beyond Flynn, Sharon’s eyes catch movement that leaves her face heating from warm to burning. Everyone else has chosen this moment to appear in the doorway.

“Oh, looks like the festivities started without us,” Pete crows.

Sharon clears her throat. “Only because you’re late.” She makes eye contact with nothing in particular as she waves toward the remaining bins. “Can someone bring the carts from the freight elevator lobby? Let’s get these moved upstairs.”


	6. Chapter 6

After a few hours spent sorting Who-appropriate decorations from their stash and another spent selecting new supplies from a handful of catalogs, Sharon gave the decorating crew a few weeks off. Their efforts so far had managed to cross off every item on her pre-preparation checklist. The real work will begin in earnest after Veteran’s Day, right on schedule, with their fresh gear in hand.

Given this timeline, she’s surprised when a Wednesday night knock in early November finds Andy Flynn on her front stoop. Having just slid two sheets of cookies into the oven, she wipes her fingers on a towel before pulling the door open.

“Sergeant. What—” Her eyes widen at the sight of the large box he holds. “What’s this?”

“The decorations we ordered at the last meeting?” His tone suggests it’s nothing for him to be turning up at her home, hauling packages. He half-turns to the street, showing where his unmarked cruiser sits with its back doors open, revealing more cardboard.

“Why did you bring them _here?_ ” She holds up a hand. “Wait, how do you even know where I live _?_ ”

He freezes, halfway toward lowering the box onto the top step. She tries not to notice how the motion spotlights the broad span of his shoulders, clad in a black t-shirt. “Uh…” No doubt looking to save his back, he lowers the load the rest of the way before straightening. “Well, I _am_ a cop.”

“You _looked_ me _up_?” she scoffs. “Th-that’s completely beyond authorized purpose, and—”

“I didn’t look you up, Lieutenant. You think I’m stupid enough to admit that to you?” He runs his palm over the hint of graying hair at his temple. “I have sources, I asked around.”

“Sources?”

Flynn ignores her question and continues, “And as far as why I brought the decorations _here_ ,” his expression darkens. “I live in a small apartment, so I don’t have the room to keep them myself.”

Sharon struggles to piece together how he’d have ended up receiving the shipment to begin with. It isn’t as if he took a lead role in ordering their new supplies. That’d been Pete, with a wishlist the LAPRRA budget could never hope to fulfill. Her instincts point toward Ally and Eric, foisting a rookie ordeal on him. It explains why he came looking for her, in particular. 

With that in mind, she steps aside from the door, leaving him room to enter. “You’re doing the others’ dirty work, now?”

“ _I_ ,” he grunts as he lifts the box again, “am being a team player.”

After pointing him to an empty corner in the sunroom, she says, “You don’t have to take that from them, you know.” When he steps back with his attention stuck on the box’s position, she swats at his arm. “I don’t want you burning out and swearing off Christmas forever.”

The way he directs a lifted brow stare at the point of impact leaves her regretting the casual contact. But the surprised grin he slides her takes a long stride toward easing that discomfort. “And here I thought you were trying to get rid of me.”

Caught once again, Sharon smooths her features before asking, “What made you think that?”

“Oh, just a hunch.”

“Sometimes hunches can be wrong.”

“True, though I _am_ a trained investigator and all that.” Before he’s able to more thoroughly call out her earlier behavior, his eyes catch on a point behind her. His expression softens. “Hey there.”

After angling in the direction of his greeting, Sharon finds Ricky standing in the doorway to the living room. Before she can usher him back toward the table, he offers a soft, “Hi.”

Something about this unexpected introduction builds tension along her spine. Still, she fills the hanging quiet. “Ricky, this is Andy.” She’s surprised at the ease with which his first name appears on her lips. “He’s helping plan the big Christmas party this year.”

Flynn crosses his arms with an assessing squint. “You must be, what, thirteen?”

The strategic overestimate leaves Ricky showing his full, toothy smile. “Ten!” With a shrug, he adds, “Well, ten-and-a-half.”

“That half’s important.”

“Yep.”

Sharon squeezes her son’s shoulder, relaxing into the conversation as she explains, “Ricky and his sister are working on their Christmas lists.”

“Talk about important.” He nods toward the house, asking Ricky, “Got anything good on there yet?”

“Mmyeah… a new baseball glove.”

“Nice! What position do you play?”

“Right field, mostly. Sometimes second base.” Ricky’s eyes brighten. “Oh, and I’m also asking for a jersey.”

“Ah, then you’ll be official. Who’s your team?”

“The Dodgers, duh.”

With a chuckle, Andy says, “As it turns out, I always give that _exact_ same answer.”

Ricky leans forward, his interest piqued. “Have you been to a game?”

Sharon sighs a laugh. “I think Andy has probably been to a lot of games.”

He offers a nod. “I go to a handful every year.”

“Mom says next season we can go to a game and sit in the bleachers so I can catch a home run.”

“ _Maybe_ catch a home run,” she corrects.

“If you want a homer,” Andy says, “you should get there early for batting practice.”

Ricky’s eyes go wide. “YES!” He turns to Sharon, his hands closing around her elbow. “Mom, can you write that down or something? We need to remember batting practice.”

“I think I’ll manage to keep that in mind.” She ruffles his hair. “Maybe you should add baseball tickets to your list, hm?”

His face twists into a question. “But I thought you said we’d go for my birthday.”

“Well, Santa works—”

“—pssh, _Santa_ , right—”

“—in mysterious _ways_ ,” she finishes with a nod through the door.

Ricky heaves a sigh that leaves his shoulders drooping, but he turns away from the porch.

“Nice to meet you, Ricky.”

“Nice meeting you, too!”

Once he’s out of earshot, Andy mutters, “Sorry, didn’t mean to get him all distracted.”

Sharon waves off his concern. “It doesn’t take much, especially where baseball is concerned.” She turns, scanning the edges of the entryway for her beat-up yardwork sneakers. “Let me find some shoes and I’ll help you—”

“No, no,” he lifts a palm, “I can get the rest.” When she tries to argue, he adds, “It’ll make up for me dumping decorations all over you, last time.”

“You don’t need to ‘make up’ for that.”

“Sure,” he grins, backing out the door, “but maybe I _should_.”

By the time the former contents of his Crown Vic have become a neat pile in the porch’s corner, Sharon’s oven timer has set to beeping. Despite her earlier resolution concerning Flynn and baked goods, she finds herself loading a small paper plate with still-warm rounds, securing a layer of plastic wrap over its top.

Back on the porch, the man in question stands, head cocked toward the accumulated boxes, weighing some unseen problem. Sharon clears her throat, drawing his attention to the offering she extends in his direction.

Andy’s eyes round into charming surprise. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Fresh baked Italian wedding cookies.”

He reaches for the plate, balancing it on his palm as he transfers it from her hands. “Those are the best.” A deft pull moves the plastic wrap aside just enough for him to sneak a cookie out. He crunches through it with a satisfied grunt, which turns into a thawing smile. “Keep this up and I’ll have to find excuses to visit IA more often.”

Sharon isn’t sure whether it’s his words or his warmth or the nonchalant way he sucks powdered sugar from the pad of his thumb, but something in the moment sends a jolt racing through her. The heat of embarrassment follows.

Her standards for a thrill have certainly fallen over the last few years.

“As long as you don’t come bearing paperwork…” She recognizes the implication too late, that she’d want him showing up at her desk just _because_. “Or, I mean—”

“Nah, I wouldn’t." The potential misstep leaves him unruffled. "I’m trying to keep my nose clean these days.”

“In that case, you should know I don’t bake much outside the holidays.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed.” When she gives a nodding recognition of the compliment, he adds, “You’re starting kind of early for holiday baking, huh? I mean, it would’ve been weeks ago, with that spread at our first meeting.”

She shrugs. “Just getting into the season.”

“Well,” he lifts the plate, pairing the motion with another wide smile that seems to crowd her chest. “Lucky me, then.”

“I’ll bring cookies on Saturday, if you can supply the coffee again?”

“Now that’s an offer I can’t refuse.” He points toward the cornerful of boxes as he heads for the door. “And thanks for bailing me out on storage space. I’ll stop by and pick them up when the time comes.”

Despite her earlier confused annoyance, Sharon finds herself, if not glad for his visit, at least serene about it. “Not a problem, Andy.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry belated Christmas, everyone! Clearly, I fail at both estimating the length of my stories and mapping out how long it'll take me to write them. Next year, if I tackle something like this again, I'll need to start writing in September! As it is, this one will continue, even if it's not quite timely anymore.

“I think we should begin with the Who houses,” Pete announces to kick off the first crafting session. He drops a gallon-size paint can onto the table at the front of the room.

With just under a month left until the party, it’s time to focus on the decorations they weren’t able to buy. Beginning with the largest — and most unique — pieces makes as much sense as anything else.

Sharon nods. “That’s a good place to start.”

“Once we get the big stuff taken care of,” Pete says, following her train of thought, “we can put them away until next month and focus on the rest.”

At this, Andy strolls into the room, a few minutes late but hauling the promised coffee. He grimaces at Pete’s declaration. “And where’s this ‘big stuff’ going to be stored?”

“In my garage,” Pete answers before stretching on a smile. “Don’t worry. I heard you had the pleasure of finding a spot for all of our new decorations.”

As expected, Ally and Eric trade snickers at the observation. Andy’s eyes narrow, but his response to Pete is level. “Yeah, I did. No problem.”

“Good, good.” Pete turns, unfurls a long stretch of paper, and moves to snap it to the board. “Now, here are our schematics…”

As he launches into the details, Andy leans toward Sharon, muttering, “At least I hope it’s not a problem.”

On a whisper, she answers, “I told you it isn’t.” She watches him sidelong as he unpacks the coffee supplies. Without waiting for a request, he fills a cup, tips in a bit of cream, and sets it next to her clipboard. The gesture leaves a wave of warmth rolling over her. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” His lips tilt into a smile as he pours his own. “And what kind of cookies do we have today?”

“Well,” she takes a sip of coffee. “Ricky and Emily made rice krispies treats and peanut butter blossoms.” With a glance at the plates she’d arranged earlier, she adds, “Oh, and jam thumbprints.”

“So you’re outsourcing your baking now?”

“I take any and all offers of help in the kitchen,” she murmurs. 

“Huh.” Half into his cup, he says, “So _child labor_ is how you manage to churn out all those treats.”

Before Sharon has a chance to respond, Pete’s loud, “Okay!” and accompanying clap steal her attention. The team pushes away from the table and into motion. They’ve managed to miss the game plan.

She trades a wide-eyed look with Andy before asking, “Where do you need us, Pete?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Well, as I was _saying_ , we need another hand in here for assembly and someone else to help with painting.”

“Andy, do you have a preference?”

“I’m just here to provide manual labor.” His eyes trail Caroline — who has donned a Santa hat — as she passes with several overstuffed bags of cotton. Sharon’s about to call him out on his wandering attention when he frowns and mutters, “Oh, and to balance out the jolliness with some bah-humbug.”

She smothers a grin. “That’s Scrooge, not the Grinch.”

He shrugs. “Either way.”

Sharon finds Pete wearing a wide grin, his eyes flitting back and forth between the two sides of their conversation. “Um,” she rolls her lips together and nods at Andy. “Why don’t you take the painting? I’ll help with construction.”

He lifts his hand to his temple in a lazy salute. “Sure thing, LT.”

Stepping past Pete’s cheeky smile, Sharon approaches the assembly line set up across a group of tables. She plants her hands on her hips. “Okay, what’s the game plan over here?”

Pete’s mirth sticks around as he sets to explaining. “First, we need to join several pieces of cardboard with kraft tape, so we end up with a roughly four foot by five foot rectangle…” He trails off as he leans over the table to demonstrate.

Once he steps through the process on the first house, it’s a matter of minutes before the second is on its way to the hall for painting. Pete and Eric set into a rhythm of taping, cutting, and shaping while Sharon prepares the cardboard and Caroline shuttles the finished houses onward. An hour flies by before Pete pulls back from the table with a frown.

“We need…” He trails off, scanning the production line. “The makings of four more houses.”

Sharon takes in the dwindling stock of cardboard. “I’ll go get some boxes from downstairs.”

She spares little more than a glance toward the painting setup on her way to the freight elevator. But as she comes back from storage, familiar voices travel down the hall, growing more distinct as she closes in on the team’s conference room.

“…on their way down to San Diego right now, for a day of brews, tacos, and beach time,” Ally grumbles. “And here I am, up at the crack of dawn to slather Pepto Bismol onto cardboard.”

“Why,” Andy’s voice cuts across the word, “do you keep signing up for this every year, if you hate the whole thing so much?”

Sharon pauses around the corner from their conversation. She’s considered this question countless times since Ally’s scowl first showed up on her team.

The answer begins with a scoff. “Do you know how many captains and commanders go to this party? Being on the planning committee almost _guarantees_ face time with them. That has perks.”

“So this is about your career? Isn’t that a little cynical?”

“ _You’re_ calling _me_ cynical? That’s rich. And I suppose you’re here out of the pure goodness of your heart?”

“Well… no.” He clears his throat. “I need some volunteer experience to help my promotion chances.”

“Mhmm, yeah, see—”

“ — but I could’ve picked anything, Nevasky. I could’ve gone down to the Humane Society, or written up some of the stuff I already do. I came to the Christmas party committee because it means something to me.”

Sharon’s eyes widen. So Andy _had_ purposely ended up on her team. She adjusts her grip around the boxes, which have started a gradual slide toward the floor. She should go through, get on her way. She _should_.

Instead, she settles her shoulder against the wall, keeping her haul in place as she listens.

Ally doesn’t buy his explanation. “ _Sure_ , Flynn. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“Look,” he grits. “You’re young, I’m sure you still drive off to spend Christmas with your family and you do dinner and presents and enjoy the whole thing. But not everyone has that option. Not everyone has a holiday full of warm fuzzy feelings.” After a pause, he adds, “This party, every year I’ve gone, has managed to feel like Christmas, against all odds. Even if it’s only for an evening, even if it’s only with coworkers. It’s something.” The direction of his voice changes. “I figured it was time I helped out with it.”

“Wow, so _deep_ ,” Ally taunts. “Meanwhile, I got a promotion out of a chat I had with Captain Varden at the party two years ago. So I have zero guilt over my own approach, thanks.”

Sharon sighs and rounds the corner as Andy grumbles a response she can’t make out. In the hallway, she finds them facing off near a line of unpainted cardboard houses. Ally’s roller drips pink paint onto a dropcloth.

With a pointed sidestep, Sharon brushes several of the boxes’ corners against the metal outline of a doorway. This breaks their staredown.

“Oh, hey,” Andy steps forward, reaches toward the load. “Let me help you with that, LT.”

“Thank you.” She lowers her grip, making room for him to grab the top half of the pile. Instead, he easily transfers the entire stack from her hands.

He lifts the bundle with a triumphant grin. “I’m guessing these are going to Pete?”

“Mhmm.” At her agreement, he heads into the conference room. Sharon stays in place next to Ally, waiting until they’re alone before asking, “Everything going okay?”

A smile curls her lips. The expression doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s going great, ma’am.” She flicks the roller toward the bare houses. “Just a few more left.”

Sharon doesn’t begrudge Ally her ambition. She doesn’t particularly care about her foul attitude, as long as she stays productive. But her mocking of a genuine — if surprising — commitment to the team, combined with her lack of candor, sets a fire burning in Sharon’s gut. It leaves her voice cutting when she says, “You let me know if you need a break, okay?”

Ally’s eyes widen. “I-I’m,” she swallows hard, “everything’s fine.”

“Good.” Sharon continues her path down the hall. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Caroline steps through the door, carrying another blank house to the painting line. With her Santa hat still in place, her mood is bright. “One more down!”

“Great job,” Sharon grins. She stills Caroline with squeeze of her shoulder. “Do you think you could lend Ally a hand with painting, now that we’re winding down on construction?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, sure, sounds fun!” With near-bouncing steps, she joins Ally on the dropcloth. “I heard you need backup over here.”

Without waiting to hear Ally’s response, Sharon returns to the conference room. Inside, Pete is explaining his assembly process to Andy, who watches with crossed arms and a bemused grin. When the topic of conversation turns to superior brands of tape, Eric cuts in. “Do we wanna finish these last few, or no?”

The first set of painted houses rest against the far wall, several sporting lines of fluffy white snow substitute along their tops. Sharon grabs a bag of cotton and two aerosol cans from the supply table. “Hey, Andy?” He’s loose, now, but it’s probably best to keep him away from Ally for the time being. “Could you help me add some sparkle to these?” She extends the glitter spray toward him.

“Sparkle duty.” He takes the can, examines its label. “I think I should be able to handle that.” With the nozzle aimed outward, he leans down, preparing to coat a broad span of cardboard with the spray.

“Ah-ah,” she stills him with a hand on his wrist. “I was thinking maybe we’d put glitter on the ‘snow’ and leave the rest as-is?”

“Okay.” He straightens, lifting his focus to the line of fluff along the figure’s top. “I’ll defer to your expertise.”

A smirk slides onto her face as she reaches for the glue. “And here I thought you had _opinions_ on all this.”

“Oh, well, I have opinions on pretty much everything.”

“You don’t say.”

“But you’re a natural with bringing the Christmas cheer, so who am I to argue?”

Sharon sets to sticking cotton onto the next house. Thinking back on his earlier comments in the hall, she says, “Truthfully, I find it hard to get into the season, out here.”

“Really?”

“You pointed out that I started baking early?” At his nodded recognition, she continues, “That’s part of it. I figure if I get a running start, the spirit might catch up with me sooner rather than later.”

He adds a few more spritzes of glitter to the fluff. “Are you from back east, by any chance?”

“Yes. Pennsylvania.” Sharon lifts a shoulder. “Christmas just isn’t the same with palm trees, sunny skies, and 70-degree weather.”

“Right. Not even a hint of snow? It’s weird. Even after all these years.” Andy chuckles, pausing in his glitterizing efforts. “One of my earliest memories is my ma wrapping a scarf around my face before we all trudged through knee-deep snow — well, knee-deep on me at the time, anyway — on our way to midnight mass in Brooklyn.” As he shakes the can and moves to the next house, he says, “Just doesn’t seem fair that my kids roll up to Sacred Heart on Christmas Eve wearing nothing warmer than long sleeves.”

At the mention of his kids, she forces her voice into lightness. “Oh, you don’t inflict winter on them? In the spirit of the season, and all?”

“Ah.” His brows drop into an expression that could pass as concentration. “No. My ex-wife’s family is up in Oxnard, so that’s where they’ve always spent Christmas.”

“I see.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.” With this unprompted denial, he deposits a layer of glitter along a snowy roofline. “Now that both my parents are gone, my brother and sisters don’t do the whole big family gathering anymore.” With a few steps back, he gauges his work. “How about you?”

“Hm?”

“You do the big family thing?”

“Oh. Yes, sometimes.” Sharon applies a thin coat of adhesive to the bare top of a fresh house. With her concentration fixed on applying cotton puffs, she says, “It all gets a bit chaotic though. And that’s _after_ single-handedly herding my kids through the airport and onto a plane.” At Andy’s questioning stare, she adds, “I have twelve nieces and nephews. So far.”

“Oof.” He winces. “Yeah, that could make for a long trip.”

“It’s nice in its own way, but it’s not something I need to do every year.” She presses the last of the faux snow into glue. “This time, I’m looking forward to a low-key Christmas, just me and the kids.”

He slides a glance to her. “Oh, so you don’t—”

“Sharon!” Pete’s call from the front of the room drowns out the rest of Andy’s question.

She turns toward the sound. “Yes?”

“Are those ready to go?” He points at the houses they’ve just finished be-snowing.

Andy sprays the last bit of cotton with a flourish. “They are now.”

“Great.” Pete moves to stand near their snow application station. “We’re running a bit short on time, so I want to start getting these moved out to my van as the paint dries.” He tests the freshest house with a poke, grinning when his skin doesn’t come away pink. “These look good.”

“Yeah, I’m getting strong Who vibes, here.” Andy takes in the results of their work for a moment, then begins pulling the forms into a stack. “I’ll help you take these out, Pete.”

As they gather the decorations, Eric leans against the table at Sharon’s side. “Yet another successful Christmas decorating session.”

Despite Ally’s continued agitation, she has to agree. Overall, it’s been about as productive as a Saturday morning meeting could be. “One down, who-knows-how-many to go?”

He chuckles, “‘Tis the season,” before pushing off the table and toward the door, where Pete and Andy struggle to maneuver the houses. “Here guys, let me help.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Bob, it’s Sharon Raydor. Just checking in on the FOP hall reservation, making sure you have everything you need. Let me know, my desk number is 213-555-9329.”

She tries not to slam the handset back onto its base. For the third time in a week, Rambert hasn’t answered the phone when she called for a status update. If she was the paranoid type, she’d think he was avoiding her.

He has the most straightforward job on the entire Christmas committee. It also happens to be the most essential, and the least supervised. Without a venue, they have nothing. And, for all the years Sharon has helped plan the party, they’ve never had a backup locale.

Her poking intuition leads to a twisting gut. Her heart thumps in her chest. She reaches for the phone, but the echo of her captain’s words from her yearly review keep her from dialing.

_A tough lesson for any new leader is the art of delegation_ , he’d said. _You’re one of the most diligent officers in my unit, but you’re spreading yourself too thin. As a lieutenant, your responsibility now covers more than a single person can handle. It’s by design._

She’d bit her tongue, thinking that his own leadership style does her no favors in getting through her daily task list. But she was willing to admit he’d had a point.

With that perspective, the Christmas party marks the perfect, low-stakes opportunity to test her delegation skills. _Let Bob handle himself_ , she resolves. If he doesn’t get the FOP hall, he’ll just need to find somewhere else to host them.

_Them_. She swallows, picturing the crowd.

At least 200 officers, with a decent number of guests mixed in. They’ll be half-rowdy and looking to unwind, having dropped $10 a piece for the opportunity. Everyone will expect a party worth their hard-earned money, consistent with past years…

_And does Bob care about_ any _of that?_

Low stakes? Sure, no one is dying, but LAPRRA’s credibility and its 1999 operating budget relies on the party’s success.

And isn’t a central principle of leadership knowing where the burden ultimately rests?

Sharon reaches for the phone again, this time flipping through her Rolodex to the Fs. With fingers that feel oddly removed from the rest of her body, she punches the digits from a crinkle-cornered card. Two rings bring a distracted greeting to the line. “Fraternal Order of Police, this is Joe.”

“Joe, hi. This is Sharon Raydor.”

“Oh, hey, Sharon.” His voice warms. “How’re things goin’?”

“Good, I hope.” She taps a pen against her desk. “I was wondering whether you’ve been in touch with one of my team members, Bob Rambert.”

“Rambert?” The long stretch of his breath rustling across the line leaves Sharon frozen, praying for an affirmative answer, no matter how unlikely. “Uh, no. Doesn’t ring a bell, why?”

Her stomach plummets. Every drop of fatalism she’s held back like a dam comes rushing to the front of her mind. It thickens her tone when she says, “Oh God. He was supposed to make the reservation for the LAPRRA Christmas Party.”

“Ah, right.” Joe goes flat. “I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from anyone yet this year.”

“Please tell me—”

A throat-clearing cough interrupts her plea. “Listen, I’m sorry, but we’re booked up for the 12th.”

“Joe, we’ve rented out your hall on the second Saturday in December, every year for the past ten years.”

“I understand that, Sharon. But someone beat you to it this time.”

“Is there _anything_ we can do to—”

“I’m sorry, no. It’s a wedding reception for the daughter of a retired captain. There’s no moving it around.” Her answering silence leaves him cajoling, “Hey, how ‘bout Sunday instead?”

Sharon sighs, “We can’t have a party on a Sunday, Joe.” She winces at the thought of the sleep-deprived and potentially hungover rank-and-file rolling into their divisions the following day. “Who’d want to wake up early the next morning for work?”

“Well, that’s a valid point.” A creak carries over the line, no doubt marking Joe leaning back in his chair. “Look, I’m real sorry. I wish there was something I could do, but my hands are tied.”

Through the swirl of panic filling her mind, she manages an even response. “No, Joe. It’s not your fault. I understand”

“Hey, I hope to see you guys again next year, okay?”

“I hope so too. Thanks.”

She doesn’t wait for his sign-off before dropping the handset back into its receiver. The firm beat of her heart finds an echo at her temple. They’re without a venue at the three-week mark. No matter how much work the committee strings together between now and the 12th, it won’t lead to a party if they don‘t find a replacement.

A nearby ringing phone snaps Sharon’s attention from its spiral. Her watch reads 3pm. With a stretch, she reaches into her bag and pulls out her Christmas clipboard. A few flipped pages unearths the master contact list. Again, her fingers press into her phone’s keypad.

A concise greeting meets her after one ring. “Vice, Kippering.”

“Alex, it’s Sharon.”

“Oh, hey. You know, I was just about to send you the menu—”

She shakes her head. “We have a huge problem with the party.”

“Really?” His voice sharpens. “What’s up?”

“The FOP Hall is out. We have no site.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yes, that sums it up.” Sharon looks over the office, gauging the number of still-occupied desks in her own unit. “We need to have an emergency meeting of the full committee this evening. Let’s say 5:30, in the big conference room on the first floor.”

“Sure, but I can’t guarantee all of my people will be there.”

“Understood. Just get as many as you can.” She turns back to her list. “Can you reach out to Dawn and Julie? Have them call their teams. I’ll take Adam and the rest of my group.”

“Copy that.”

By the time Sharon makes it downstairs, a few minutes before 5:30, most of the larger committee has gathered.

Dawn, the ticket sales leader, wastes no time in getting to the heart of the issue. Sharon hasn’t even dropped her bag before she asks, “Is it true? We don’t have the FOP hall anymore?”

“Well,” Sharon scans the group, finding a line of wide eyes and hard jaws. There’s no use in skirting the truth. “It’d be more accurate to say we never had it in the first place. Joe said he never heard from…” she stops short of naming Bob, choosing instead to finish with, “ _anyone_.”

This doesn’t deter Dawn. “But we’ve already hung posters and printed the address on the tickets.”

“I know,” Sharon says, “but the only thing I can promise at this point is that we’re not having the party there.”

Dawn’s eyes narrow into a glare, as if this was a choice Sharon made to personally inconvenience the ticket team. “Well. That’s _wonderful_.”

“I agree.” She glares at her clipboard rather than returning the scowl aimed in her direction. “Regardless of that, though, we either need to find and advertise a different venue or cancel the party.”

Shocked glances travel around the room. In the back, Rod raises his hand. At Sharon’s nod, he asks, “And what’s our timeline for finding a new place?”

“As soon as possible.”

Down the line, Sobriki says, “My aunt and uncle have a ranch over in Pomona.”

Sharon bites her tongue, fixing her eyes high on the wall until a tactful response finds her. “I do appreciate the offer, Carl, but we need to locate something within city limits.”

This spurs a few indistinct murmurs and more than one shaking head. She forces a smile and tries again. “I’m not expecting to find a solution now. But I wanted to get the word out, so that hopefully we can figure out an alternative. If you know someone who knows someone, have them give me a call. Otherwise…” She trails off, lifting a shoulder. “Have a great night, and I’ll see you next time.”

As the room’s movement flows away from the table and into the quick fade of evening, a familiar dark-haired form appears in the doorway. Flynn’s brow creases as he notices the session breaking up.

His eyes meet Sharon’s. “Sorry, I was out at a scene. Just got your message.”

“It’s fine, Andy. Don’t worry.”

Looking around the emptying room, he asks, “What’s going on?”

She waits for the last few meeting attendees to file out before answering, “The FOP hall fell through. We don’t have a place to hold the party.”

“What?” His mouth drops open. “How’d that even happen?”

“The short version,” she grits, having exhausted her earlier supply of diplomacy, “is that Bob dropped the ball.”

“Damn.” He slides his hands into his coat pockets as his frown deepens. “So, what’s the game plan?”

“I’m taking any and all suggestions.”

He draws a deep breath and exhales, “Well…” After a stretch of silence, he lifts his arms, parting his jacket as he moves. “I know a guy.”

“You… know… a guy,” Sharon repeats, flatly.

“Yeah,” his voice takes on a defensive edge. “He might be able to help out.”

As stereotypical as it may be, the combination of his accent and talk of having ‘a guy’ leaves Sharon wondering whether they’ll end up with an offer they can’t refuse, maybe holding the party down at the port. But the corner they’re backed into gives her little choice but to consider the option.

“If you don’t mind giving him a call,” she sighs, “it’d be a huge help.”

“Sure thing.” He backs toward the door. “Be right back.”

She should tell him he doesn’t need to rush. But the pressure of the day keeps her quiet as his steps fade. In the empty room, she sinks into a chair. She’s been churning at high gear for hours, now, trying to tease a solution from the tangled mess of her well-laid plans. The dull throb of her headache pulls to the forefront of her attention, overwhelming every conscious thought. She rubs at her hairline, a futile attempt to ease the pain away. Closing her eyes against the glaring overhead lights helps. A series of deep, measured breaths pushes it further afield.

“Um, Sharon?”

She starts at the sound of Andy’s voice. When she straightens and drops her hand from her face, she finds him wincing. “Sorry—”

“No, don’t worry about it.” He sinks into a chair across the corner of the table from her. Exhaustion seeps from her when she asks, “Any leads from your guy?”

The center of his mouth lifts into a nonchalant frown. “Well, better than a lead, actually.”

Sharon leans forward. “Really?”

“You familiar with Our Lady of Mount Carmel?”

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s a parish over in Silver Lake. They have a school with a nice basketball gym, plenty of parking, relatively close to the freeway…” He trails off with a shrug.

“And?”

His eyes lift to the ceiling. “ _And_ they’d be willing to host our Christmas party.”

“Really!?” She straightens as an unexpected wave of relief floods over her. “That’s…” Sharon shakes her head, awed. “That’s perfect, Andy. How did you ever manage to—”

He holds his palm up. “Let’s just say I have an in with the principal.”

“Well I appreciate it. Truly.” At his long, answering nod, another sentiment rushes forth. “And I owe you an apology.”

He stills mid-nod and raises a brow. “Why?”

“I may have… _prejudged_ your reasons for getting involved with the R and R. And that was wrong of me.”

A half-grin, half-grimace twists his mouth as he rubs at the back of his neck. “Well… uh… I should probably let you know, before you get too far into this apology, that there _is_ a catch to this whole Mount Carmel thing—”

Sharon’s eyes widen. Her blood seems to still in her veins at the possible nature of this condition. “And what’s that?”


	9. Chapter 9

“ _Another_ last-minute meeting.” Ally grumbles as she sinks into a chair. “You’d think we’re welcoming the Queen or something.”

“Huh.” Andy, settled at the front of the room, cocks his head in her direction. “I don’t remember seeing you in here yesterday, Nevasky.”

“Yeah, that’s because I was _working_. Futzing around with the Christmas party doesn’t get me a paycheck, you know.”

“And yet, most of us were able to spare five minutes to come down.”

In an effort to keep the gathering from sliding into a bickering match, Sharon intervenes. “With any luck, this will be our last emergency get-together.”

Alex drums a little rhythm on the table. “Oh, ho ho _ho_! Does that mean Christmas is saved?”

“Yes,” she smiles. With most of the chairs filled and the topic already spilled, she starts the meeting. “I think most everyone is here, and I don’t want to take up much of your lunch hour, so I’ll lead off with the good news: we have a new site for the party.” She catches Andy’s eye as Alex lets out a short whoop over a chorus of claps and celebratory noise. After a moment, she adds, “So don’t worry about any leads you might’ve kicked off last night. We’ll be in the gym at Mount Carmel School, up in Silver Lake.”

On the far side of the table, Dawn raises her hand. “But what about the fliers and the tickets we’ve already handed out?”

Sharon spent a borderline inappropriate amount of time at the copier this morning for the purpose of heading off this question. She pushes a sheaf of paper in Dawn’s direction. “It’s not perfect, but there are some inserts for the tickets and new address blocks to tape on the fliers. That’ll go a long way toward solving the problem, and word of mouth should handle the rest.”

Melissa, another member of the ticket team, leans forward to meet Dawn’s skeptical frown. “And I’ll talk to the FOP about putting up a sign on the 12th, in case anyone shows up there on the night of the party.”

“That’s a great idea, Melissa,” Sharon says. “We have plenty of time to spread the news. I think it’ll all work out.”

After swiping one of the ticket insert sheets, Adam asks, “How is this gonna affect the bottom line?”

“It won’t. The rental fee is actually less than we would’ve paid to the FOP. _But_.” Sharon rolls her shoulders back, bracing for pushback on the second price for their last-minute arrangement. “The bad news…” She squints toward the far wall, reconsidering her phrasing, “Well, not exactly _bad_. The, let’s say, _additional_ news is that we’ve been asked to provide some extra hands at the parish’s Thanksgiving meal service for the needy.”

A beat of silence leaves her hopeful. But a more realistic reaction trails it, a rumble of low voices and whispers growing into full-voiced comments.

“As in _on_ Thanksgiving?”

“I’m not even going to _be_ here.”

“That means a drive into the city on a holiday.”

“I’ll be on duty.”

Holding up her palms, Sharon says, “I know it’s a busy time of year for everyone, and with this being on a holiday many of us won’t be available. But the service group at the church is expecting a large turnout for the meal this year and they’re short on help. If just a handful of us can pitch in, even if it’s only for an hour or two, it’s something.”

This mitigation does little to quiet the room. Several crossed arms and piercing glares appear across the table.

On a shake of his head, Andy stands. “Hey, you all should know this is coming from me.” He ignores Sharon’s lifted brow as he adds, “I’m the one who agreed to the conditions.”

Ally’s mouth drops open. “Wait, _what_?”

“Yeah, with Rambert flubbing the FOP reservation, we had to find a new site for the party. The principal at Mount Carmel is an old friend of mine, so…”

“ _So_ now we’re supposed to drop our Thanksgiving plans, on top of everything else we’re doing?”

“No, you’re not _supposed_ to drop anything, Nevasky—”

“Ah,” Sharon’s palm finds Andy’s arm for a blink as she steps forward, recapturing the meeting. The gesture works to quiet him. “I know it’s unexpected, and it’s short notice. But it _is_ for a good cause, and it does help us get our party venue.” With a nod toward Ally, she adds, “ _And_ it isn’t required, for anyone.”

“Okay, then,” Ally stands, “are we good to go?”

“Sure,” Sharon says. Her heart sinks as most of the group moves to follow Ally’s lead, albeit at a slower pace. Over the scrape of chairs along linoleum, she half-yells, “For anyone who can join us on Thanksgiving, I have the details up here.”

Rod and Julie grab a flier on their way out, though they stop short of committing. Pete, ever the team player, promises to show up in the evening for clean-up. Otherwise, the stack of papers with directions to Mount Carmel remain untouched.

Andy releases a long breath before gritting, “ _That_ went well.”

Sharon meets this with a sidelong look. “I can’t _order_ them to show up.” At his mirroring stare, she adds, “Let me talk to Brad. He lives in Silver Lake, so do several people on the 5k committee. I’m sure some of them could come.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, watching Rowles and Sawyer disappear through the door. “I just hope we can get Jay the help he needs to make this dinner happen.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh hey there. Greetings from what is hopefully the end of a depressive episode.
> 
> Obviously this is super behind and late now, so I apologize. But it's legit impossible to string coherent thoughts together when my brain is filled with constant 'bleh' and the famous Guilt Spiral rears its ugly head.
> 
> But at least this chapter is long-ish! Lots of important stuff happens, which is why I wanted to make sure I did it right (and maybe why I felt a lot of pressure in finishing). 
> 
> Thanks to everyone reading this for coming back ;)

“So we’re not having turkey and stuffing?”

For what feels like the hundredth time since she announced they’d be helping with Thanksgiving dinner at Mount Carmel, Sharon fields a complaint on the topic from her daughter. As she seals a large Tupperware bowl, she answers, “I could swear you’re the same girl who turned up her nose at turkey and stuffing last year.”

“But it _is_ Thanksgiving, right?” Emily plants a palm on her hip, in a show of attitude too assured for her age. “Because it doesn’t seem like we’re celebrating.”

“We _are_ celebrating, by giving back. You and Ricky are both old enough to appreciate that, now. It’s the perfect occasion to consider those less fortunate than we are.”

“Less fortunate,” she quips, “but _they’ll_ be eating turkey.”

Perhaps Sharon made a mistake in mentioning the separate volunteer potluck to her daughter.

Then again, maybe her failure is larger.

She bites back a hard retort about the privilege of always knowing where your next meal will be, opting for cool logic instead. “After we help serve dinner, we’ll pack up whatever’s left of the donated food, so it can be handed out to people preparing to spend their night on the _street_.” She can’t resist twisting this into a point as she snaps a second lid in place. “The volunteers have a carry-in every year, that’s why I made broccoli slaw and jigglers.”

Frankly, the sharing approach turned out to be the perfect setup for a head chef who had neither the time nor the desire to make a full holiday dinner this year. But that’s beside the point.

As Emily pulls another eye roll, Ricky pops his head through the door. “Jigglers? Did you make them with the blue Jell-O?”

“Of course.” Sharon can’t resist returning his grin as she holds the treats out to him. “Can you take them to the car?”

“Yeah!”

After he darts outside, she hands the salad to Emily. “Maybe we’ll end up liking this more than our usual way of celebrating.”

“Sure.” She turns heel, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder as she goes. “Whatever.”

Sharon draws a calming breath as she locks the door and heads for the garage. It’s going to be a long day; she can’t let Emily’s near permanent foul mood infect her own.

Ricky must have the same idea. As she settles into the front, he’s ending some exchange with his sister from the backseat. “…all sorts of people, it’ll be cool. They’ll probably bring stuff Mom doesn’t usually make for us.”

“Yeah,” Emily scoffs, “we all know you’re only going for the food, Pit.”

Sharon fixes her with a level stare. “Stop.”

She drops the eating angle, but Ricky — bless his heart — doesn’t. After several minutes of uninterrupted road noise, he asks, “Mom, do you think someone will bring those little sausage things? I like when they’re in barbeque sauce. Ooh, or wrapped in bacon!”

With a smile in the rearview, Sharon says, “I think mini sausages make an appearance at most potlucks, in one form or another.”

“Yesss.” He grins out the window as they roll off the freeway and onto the surface streets of Silver Lake. “I’m gonna have, like, a hundred.”

She smothers a snort as she glances at the flier Andy had put together for volunteers. The typed directions leave her pulling onto the school grounds and parking near a set of athletic fields. From there, it’s clear where the action is. Several groups gather along the sidewalk leading to the tall gym building, adults chatting as kids play nearby. The nearest door stands open, displaying a posterboard “Happy Thanksgiving” sign that was undoubtedly the loving creation of Mount Carmel students.

Inside, narrow tables laden with food are arranged in a long line, parallel to a wall with several pass-throughs looking into a kitchen. Large windows fill most of the far side of the building, pulling in abundant sunlight. Most of the floor is striped with tables and chairs, laid out like a makeshift restaurant. What Sharon assumes to be pristine, polished wood underfoot is covered and protected by a layer of thick gray vinyl which spreads across the entire space.

“Hey, LT!”

Andy’s signature greeting pulls her attention from the setup to where he steps from behind the serving line. The smile he stretches on leaves her own lips curling as she explains, “I brought a few extra hands.” She settles her palms on the kids’ shoulders.

“Nice!” He nods toward the kitchen. “We’ve been putting the potluck stuff in the back fridge — there’s a sign on it — and there’s a coat rack just around the corner from there.”

Sharon nudges the kids in that direction, sending her jacket on Ricky’s elbow. She takes a moment to take in the gym again, wrapping her imagination around it until it looks like something approaching Whoville. “So this is our canvas, hm?”

“Yeah, it is. I think we can whip it into shape.” He lifts an arm toward the kitchen. “Alex should love this, for the food setup. The school expanded this when they renovated the gym a few years back. They went ahead and added doors and windows on this side, so they can serve meals in here when the cafeteria gets too small.”

“On a day like today, for example?”

Andy turns to the center of the cavernous room, with its grid of tables. “Yep, definitely like today.”

A group of teenagers roams through the seats, wiping down surfaces and sweeping the aisles. “I hope we didn’t already miss the bulk of it.”

“Oh, nah, don’t worry.” When he angles toward her again, Sharon can’t help but notice the lack of tension in his features. It was once his signature characteristic, replaced now by something… oddly calming. A grin tilts his lips. “We had one big rush around noon. But we’ll get slammed again soon, if last year is any sign.”

“You got here early, then?”

“Ah, I’ve been here since…” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I dunno, eight? We had a bunch of tables to set up.” He nods at the far wall, where a telltale climb of wooden slats toward the ceiling mark retractable bleachers. “And we had to figure out how to get those things shoved into place, to make room for everyone.”

Amid this explanation, Ricky’s tennis shoes slap his sprinting arrival. “Oh, I know how to do those!”

“Hey, Ricky.” Andy pairs the greeting with a creased brow. “You know how to work the bleachers?”

“Uh-huh, with the pole thing.” He mimics a pushing motion. “I help Mr. Donovan with the ones at school, sometimes.”

At Andy’s questioning look, Sharon clarifies: “The maintenance tech up at Saint Joe’s. The kids sign up to work with different staff members on service days.”

“Yeah,” Ricky grins, “and Mr. Donovan has all the coolest stuff.”

“I bet.”

Emily appears, casting her dark eyes around the gym. Her arms twist into a hard knot across her chest. Sharon reaches for her shoulder, redirecting her attention. “Andy, this is my daughter, Emily.”

He offers a wave. “Hey Emily, nice to meet you.” At her wan smile and slight nod, he rubs his hands together. “Well, how’d you two like to be the most popular people here?”

Ricky tilts his head, weighing the offer. “That sounds pretty good…”

“Yeah?” Andy points to the end of a long line of tables stacked with food. “You wanna go down there and help Mrs. Sellers hand out the cake and pie?”

This option is enough to soften Emily’s approach. “We can do that.” She pairs the answer with a a palm on her brother’s shoulder. “C’mon.”

Sharon watches them go with a few slow blinks, as if she might have dreamed the exchange. “Well. That was less painful than I expected.”

“Ah, there was some arm-twisting involved in getting them here?”

“Not with Ricky, no. But at this point I probably couldn’t get Emily excited to go for ice cream or a weekend at the beach, let alone volunteering.” With a shake of her head, she turns back to Andy. “So what’s the plan?”

“I think cooking and clean-up is pretty well staffed for now, if you want to help serve.” He chuckles. “As the resident vegetarian, of course I’m over here passing out turkey.”

“How did you manage that?”

Andy lifts a shoulder as he rounds the serving line. “Just jumped in where there was an opening.” Pausing at the tables nearest the kitchen, where warmers crowd the tables, he glances around. “Ah, let’s see. Misty, did you say you have to take off soon?”

A woman with close-cropped black hair looks up. “Yeah, I’m supposed to be up at my in-laws’ in an hour.”

He turns back to Sharon with a grin. “How do you feel about slinging stuffing?”

“I can handle that.”

As she accepts an apron from Misty, she can’t help but notice that the stuffing is housed right next to the turkey. Andy sidles past with a fresh tray and settles it into the neighboring warmer while she laces the apron around her waist. The arrangement sends a prickle of recognition through her, that he’d choose to have her in such close proximity.

In a blink, she flicks it away. _It’s nothing_. _Just jumping in where there’s an opening_.

And the openings are few and far between, even if Sharon doesn’t recognize most of the volunteers. “I don’t see many LAPRRA people here.”

Andy shrugs. “It’s been enough. And some of them have already come and gone. Your friend Brad,” he laces the name with a hinted dig, “was here earlier with a few other guys.”

“Oh, good,” she says, allowing her relief to overwhelm his slight sarcasm.

On a lifted shoulder, he adds, with unlaced sincerity, “It was a good thing they came when they did. They were a big help with setting up and finishing the first round of food. Brad even got whisk-deep in some potatoes.”

Sharon lets out a short laugh at the thought of her cooking-averse friend in such a compromising position. “Okay, I’m sad to hear I missed that.”

Before she knows it, Andy has leaned close enough to leave her shoulder warming in proximity to his chest. He mutters, “There may be photographic evidence,” before pulling back, wearing a tricky smirk. “Jay loves that stuff for the newsletters.”

_The mysterious Jay_. Sharon grins to herself, brushing off his delivery. “Is he around today?”

“Oh, yeah. This is his show. And he specifically said he wanted to thank you for getting people to pitch in.”

“Nonsense. _We_ should be thanking _him_ for helping us out.”

“Ah,” Andy stretches the sound of recognition into a tease as his eyes catch on a point across the room. “You’re about to get your chance. There’s our knight in shining armor now.”

She follows his line of sight, to where a middle-aged blond main — clad in an unmistakable combination of black slacks and shirt with a white collar— has entered the gym.

“You mean the priest?”

“Yeah, that’s Jay.”

Sharon shouldn’t be surprised. True, the past few principals at Saint Joseph’s have been lay education doctorates, and that recent history colored her assumption as to who Jay was. But when she was coming up through diocesan schools, her principals were all priests or nuns.

No, the oddity lies more with the man who describes Mount Carmel’s leader as ‘an old friend.’ She shoots Andy a glance and a sly grin. “I wouldn’t peg you as someone who’d be hanging out with the clergy.”

“Well, I mean, he was my friend _way_ before he was a priest.” After arranging several slices of turkey onto an offered plate with a grinning nod, he explains. “My family moved from Brooklyn out to New Jersey when I was in elementary school — probably around second grade? It was a close-knit neighborhood, and we were fresh meat. Frankly, Jay was just about the only kid who wasn’t a complete jerk.” He smiles at Sharon’s sharp laugh, but it fades into something wistful before he says, “And then, when my dad died about a year after the move, his parents helped me out a lot.”

This bit of history squeezes at her chest. _To lose a parent that young…_ “That must’ve been awful.”

He’s nonchalant. “I mean, it was, from what I can remember.” He pauses in his story to greet a family coming through the line and allow Sharon to follow suit, holding until each person has their pick of turkey and dollops of stuffing. “My ma was pretty far out of it for a while, so my oldest sister ended up dropping out of her senior year to get a job at the assembly plant in town. Then my brother and other sister were picking up whatever after-school work they could. I was too little to help out much, so while they were out the Cavellos kept me fed and supervised.”

A hand claps onto his shoulder, followed by a chuckle. “Well my folks _tried_ to provide supervision. Somehow we always found a way out of it though.” The blond priest — Jay, apparently — has appeared behind them. “We must’ve had about ten ways to sneak in and out of their old house.”

“Yeah, at _least_ ,” Andy laughs. “Jay, this is Sharon Raydor. She’s a lieutenant down at Parker Center— ”

“Oh, right, the one you told me about.”

Andy’s usual swagger takes an unusual and curious downward swing as Jay extends his hand to her. “Uh- _huh_ , because she’s the Christmas party chair.”

“Ah, yes,” he gives Sharon’s hand a squeeze. “The one who keeps everyone coloring inside the lines.”

It’s a not-unkind observation, but the specificity of it, coming from a stranger, leaves her brow lifting. “So everyone tells me.”

“Every good team needs that kind of leadership.” Jay’s mouth curls into a wry grin. “A shocking concept coming from a priest, I know.”

“Well,” Sharon reflects on the few familiar faces she’s found this afternoon. “Sorry that leadership doesn’t extend to getting more volunteers to your school.”

“No, no, you’ve helped out plenty. Every volunteer is a blessing, really. As you can see,” he nods toward a group entering the gym, “we’re gearing up for a full house.”

“So I guess that means your extra outreach worked, huh?” Andy asks.

“It did.” Jay goes somber. “Lots of people being overlooked in this neighborhood. I’m glad we could bring at least some of them in.” He turns to Andy, “Speaking of…”

The rest of his comment is lost to murmuring. Andy responds to whatever he says by backing away from the line, untying his apron and handing it over. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

Jay ties the fabric around his own waist as he watches Andy wade into the tables. A faint smile turns his lips. To Sharon, he says, “That guy finally reminds me of the kid I knew, growing up. It’s been such a gift to get this posting in LA.” He nods toward nothing in particular. “For both of us, I think.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Just about three years now.” He waves at a new group trudging through the front door. “My first assignment out of seminary was in Bolivia. It was incredibly rewarding, but it was a _lot_ , and it was far from…well, pretty much everything. By the end of it, I was burned out and withdrawn, both spiritually and physically. I jumped at the chance to come to Mount Carmel, get closer to home.”

Sharon lifts a brow. “‘Home’ being New Jersey?”

He flashes a smile. “Closer than Cochabamba! Besides, my parents moved out to Scottsdale a few years ago.” On a shrug, he says, “Of course, I knew Andy was here, and that was another drawing point. I looked forward to catching up with him. What I didn’t know, before I showed up, was that he was burned out, too. Struggling.”

Sharon offers a level hum at this read. ‘Burned out’ is an understatement to what Andy had been buried in, before. ‘Struggling’ is more apt. He’d been racking up official demerits at work for years, earning a reputation as a powder keg, ready to explode at the slightest poke. In IA, it was an open secret that he’d drunk himself to near-poisoning on several occasions. No matter how good of a detective he was — and he was among the best — his behavior veered toward the inexcusable. He was a liability that no one could reel in. It wasn’t until he was on the verge of dismissal that he’d agreed to seek treatment for his alcoholism and anger issues.

“Thank God,” Jay says, signaling he’d revisited a similar string of memories, “we each got ahold of ourselves before we lost more.”

Their conversation settles into a pleasant lull as the line extends to its promised length. The gym fills with happy sounds, laughter and embraces between friends, a community joining together. Sharon greets each person who passes, offering smiles and good wishes in addition to the food.

A break in the flow finds Jay nudging her arm, nodding to where Andy sits next to an older, weathered woman at an otherwise empty table near the door. They’re deep in conversation.

“I’ll tell you,” Jay says, “he has a knack for reaching the unreachable.”

“Oh?”

“A lot of the people who come in here confuse priests for saints. They’re not interested in taking advice from someone they think hasn’t struggled against their demons.” He shakes his head. “I have plenty of demons, _believe me_ , but many of our visitors tend to find Andy’s more credible.”

With an understanding of the respect and perfection the faithful tend to project onto clergymen, Sharon nods. “He has a…” She pauses, searching for the right descriptor. “He’s straightforward about discussing his past troubles and his addiction. I imagine that helps.”

“Ah, so you know about that business.”

She shoots Jay an amused look. “I’m the one who keeps everyone in line, remember?” At his slow, polite nod, she clarifies. “I work in internal affairs. I’m surprised Andy didn’t tell you, with how often he complains about us.”

“Oh. No, he didn’t mention anything about _that_.”

Something in this emphasis, combined with Jay’s calm grin leaves Sharon’s eyes narrowing.

“Alright,” a clap behind them marks Andy’s return. “We done over here?”

Jay’s expression twists into amused disbelief. “Not _quite_. I know those old knees of yours needed a break, Andy, but…” He rounds out the taunt by giving his watch a pointed stare as he hands off the tongs and backs away from the table.

“Yeah, yeah.” Andy snaps the utensil after his friend’s retreating form, muttering, “Smartass,” in his wake. At Sharon’s sidelong look, he says, “Hey, I’m _allowed_ to give him a hard time.”

“If you say so.” A grin colors her words.

With a glance toward the ceiling, he says, “I haven’t been struck down yet, so I think I’m in the clear.” He pats the front of his shirt, frowns, holds an arm out to where Jay chats with a group of kids. “ _And_ Saint James walked off with my apron, too.” He ducks into the kitchen for a new one before returning to his spot.

Sharon can’t help but be amused, watching Andy’s lighthearted exasperation. “He makes it sound like you help out here a lot.”

“Oh, well, I dunno that I’d say ‘a lot.’” He repositions the tongs to hang on his tray’s edge before slipping the apron over his head. “I go to meetings over in the rec hall a few nights a week, and the parish hosts a soup kitchen in the cafeteria on Wednesdays. Every now and then he has me stop in to chat with someone who seems to be struggling.”

“That’s really great, Andy.”

“I mean, I’m already here, so…” he trails off, shakes his head. “Some days, it still feels a little crazy for me to be any kind of spokesperson for sobriety. After everything.”

“Like you told me, you’ve made a lot of changes since then.”

He smirks, and the mood around them flips in an instant. “And yet, the self-improvement list never seems to get shorter.”

“That’s just being human, I think.” She lifts a shoulder. “Or maybe it’s just being Type A.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Every cop I know is Type A, even if it’s deep down inside.”

“Well,” he waggles — actually, full on _waggles_ — his brows, “I’m not every cop you know.”

Sharon directs a laugh skyward, recovering just in time to serve a new line of guests. “Isn’t _that_ the truth?”

A steady stream of diners occupies their attention for a long stretch after that, though — in true form — not even a semi-hectic rush could prevent Andy from tossing out one-liners that keep her smiling. It seems impossibly soon when the orange sun dips into view through the windows. By the time their focus shifts to filling plates for delivery, Sharon’s watch shows several quick hours have passed.

In the wind-down, Emily appears across the table. “Father Jay said they’re starting a wiffle ball game with some of the kids outside and he asked if we wanted to play.”

“Well…” Sharon looks down the now-deserted food line. Other volunteers mill around, chatting, or carrying empty trays into the kitchen.

“We should be about done here,” Andy says. When Sharon slides him a glance, he adds, “For what it’s worth, anyway,” before giving Emily a wink.

Her eyes narrow, but a grin sneaks through before she holds her arm toward the outside door. “Yeah, Mom, look. Most everyone is heading out to watch.”

“Should be a good one,” Andy cajoles.

Sharon quirks a brow at him. “So _you_ want to go play wiffle ball, is what I’m hearing.”

“Oh, I do.” He chuckles, before lifting a plate. “I _really_ do, but I told Jay I’d get these ready to go out.”

To Emily, she says, “Okay, you and Ricky can go play for a while, but we’ll be doing dinner soon, so—”

She turns heel without waiting for the rest. “Okay, thanks Mom!”

Sharon rolls her eyes. “If only the take-off-before-hearing-the-particulars strategy remained viable into adulthood.”

With a stone-straight face, Andy asks, “Who says it doesn’t?” before breaking into a smile at her answering stare. “Teenagers make it work as long as they can.” With a faint nod following Emily’s path, his voice goes soft. “My daughter’s about the same age, and she’s the type where you’re lucky if she even slows down long enough to hear what you have to say.”

Something about this scene, the generous man who’ll spend an entire holiday serving the needy, who’ll drop what he’s doing to speak with a struggling addict, hits a brick wall when Sharon considers his family and their conspicuous absence.

It isn’t fair — or, at least, it _probably_ isn’t fair — but her own recent history leaves her voice glinting like a blade when she asks, “And will you see her today?”

“No.” He goes stony. “I won’t.”

His hard silence indicates he won’t offer more information, and this isn’t the time to press. They continue filling plates, with only scraping and rustling between them. But, after passing several helpings down the line, he flicks a glance at her and mumbles, “My ex doesn’t want me around the kids.”

Sharon finds her lips parting, but words don’t follow. She’s batting 0-for-2 on assumptions, today, and that last swing should have her thrown out of the game. As she slides another plate to the left, her mind swirls with the litany of reminders she has to give herself, these days: _Not every man is Jack. Not every addict is Jack. Not everyone slinks away from problems like Jack. Not every father is as negligent as Jack…_

From her dry mouth, words escape before she knows what they’ll be. “That’s awful, Andy. I’m sorry.”

With widened eyes, his reaction approaches a startle. “Don’t be sorry. It’s a messed-up situation, and I did more than my share to get it that way.”

With her knowledge of his professional history, she can’t help but extend parallel lines to his personal life, draw inferences as to what that might have looked like. But, again, she doesn’t _know_. And, from her view, he’s come a long way from his regular, bloodied appearances in IA’s offices.

“Still,” she says, “that can’t be easy.”

After they nudge two final scoops of food from their trays, he crooks his head toward the kitchen, not quite meeting her eyes. Through the door, they find a large counter covered with food laden plates and a harried-looking older gentleman angling back and forth, searching for something.

Andy lifts his chin in the man’s direction. “What’s up, Art?”

The man presses his palms into the countertop. “I can’t find the aluminum foil. I told Maxine I’d get these,” he drags a deer-in-the-headlights stare over the plates, “wrapped up and ready to go, but I still have to—”

With a raised palm, Andy interrupts. “I got it, don’t worry.”

Art stills. “You sure?”

“Positive.” He reaches high, pulling a long, narrow box from a nearby shelf.

“Well, no _wonder_ I couldn’t find it,” Art sighs before bustling out into the gym.

Andy takes his place at the counter and pulls a length of foil. He lifts his chin in Sharon’s direction. “Mind giving me a hand?”

“Sure.” She joins him in the middle of the room, where tension still stretches between them. “What can I do?”

“Just stack these,” he nods to a nearby pile of boxes, “in those as I get them wrapped.”

After crimping the foil around a plate’s edge, Andy slides it toward Sharon. He repeats the process twice before heaving a sigh. “It _isn’t_ easy, being away from my kids.” He arranges another line of plates. “In fact, Jay started dragging me in here on the holidays, since they’re the hardest…” With a shake of his head, he trails off, his hands still busy with wrapping. “Never mind. That’s all…” he flicks his fingers, as if he could swat the truth aside like a pesky fly.

Quiet falls between them as Sharon tries to untangle what he was going to say. Their quiet mood is a marked contrast from the jovial dishwashing happening just around the corner. As Andy wraps, Sharon takes care to layer the packaged plates into a box, in neat lines three deep. They’ve filled four such boxes before she pulls a lung-filling breath and toes into a topic she rarely broaches.

“My husband… well, we’re separated, but still…” Her face warms at her sudden, odd need to specify her official distance from Jack, but she maintains focus on her task as she continues. “Anyway, he wants _nothing_ to do with our children. He hasn’t for years.” She slides a filled box to the end of the bench and reaches for an empty one. “So just… don’t undervalue your desire to be part of your kids’ lives and don’t stop trying to see them.” More quietly, she adds, “They’ll understand your efforts, someday. Just like my kids will understand the lack thereof from _their_ father.”

Having finished his wrapping, Andy’s stare weighs heavy on her for several moments before he says, “I’m sorry you have to deal with that, Sharon.”

“There’s nothing to deal with, anymore.” She lifts a shoulder. “I’m more sorry for Emily and Ricky.”

A warm weight settles onto her hand. She requires a moment and a surprised downward glance to realize it’s Andy’s palm. “Just because he’s not here,” the quiet rumble of his voice sends a chill up her spine, “doesn’t mean there’s nothing to deal with.”

The truth in his words, the one she is in a constant race to outrun, leaves a lump in her throat. She can’t swallow it, and she won’t let it choke her voice. But the hum she offers as a response is rough and uneven, saying everything she wanted to avoid.

_And what now? Where does the conversation go from here?_ The moment is so unexpected, so foreign, it seems to spin beneath her feet. But it grows more solid when she looks up, finding him watching her with a slight frown.

Jay breezes through the door carrying laughter from his last conversation. “How goes things in here?”

As if they’re flipped magnets, Andy and Sharon slide in opposite directions along the counter, offering overlapping descriptions of how well the packing went.

“Great, just finished up.”

“I think it’s all ready to go.”

“Good, good.” Jay’s eyes sparkle in a knowing way, leaving Sharon scanning the kitchen for another point of attention. “Well, I told everyone we’ll get the potluck going in a few. I’ll carry these boxes out to the drivers.”

“I’ll help with that.” Andy’s in motion before he finishes the sentence.

With the loading handled, Sharon wanders outside to pull Ricky and Emily away from the wiffle ball game. On the way, she trades greetings with Pete, who’s come to clean up, as promised. Down the sidewalk, under high, bright lights, a small cross-section of the city gathers around the school’s baseball diamond as the last hint of sunlight glows orange to the west. At the plate, Emily holds a plastic bat aloft, anticpating a pitch. Ricky angles into sprinting form at third, waiting for contact. On the other side of the mound, another boy stands with his sneaker against first.

The pitcher rolls through a lazy wind-up, tosses a gentle curve over the plate. Emily’s swing is stiff and late; she’s never had her brother’s easy aptitude for sports. A makeshift umpire screeches, “Striiiike!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ricky steps off third with his hands in the air. “Time!” Sharon crosses her arms, wondering what embarrassment he might try to inflict on his sister while she’s situated on his turf.

As he jogs toward the plate, he says, “Em, here, you gotta…” He guides her hands into a more natural position at the bottom of the bat, speaking words that don’t carry up to Sharon. With a short sidestep, he demonstrates a swinging motion, giving her a chance to try it herself before he flashes two thumbs-up and backs toward his base. His final piece of advice, a shouted, “You can do it!” leaves Sharon’s heart glowing.

Emily squares to the pitcher with more confidence than she’d had on her first attempt. A second pitch finds the dirt at her feet, but the third flows down the middle. Her swing sends the ball thwacking over the second baseman and well into the outfield, curving toward the right field line but landing just fair. The fielders have to scramble after it.

Ricky is almost home when he yells to his sister, who watches the hit fly with a smile. “RUN, EM!” His command startles her from her reverie. When she starts up the line, he adds, “Not with the bat!”

She drops the stick and rounds first. Sharon joins in with the cheers rising up around the diamond as Emily hits second and keeps going. A long throw from right field curls off-line, well away from the third baseman. Ricky, having taken the role of a base coach, points toward the plate, screaming, “GO HOME! GO HOME!”

Emily slows only enough to ensure she touches third, then stretches her legs into each step of the final sprint. Her sneakers hit the plate with a faint slap as she lifts her hands in a victory pose. A group — her makeshift teammates — gather around, celebrating. A few nearby adults give them a moment before stepping in to nudge the game onward.

Sharon takes this as her opening, cupping her hands to her mouth to yell, “Ricky! Emily!” When their attentions lift to her, she beckons them toward the school. They turn back for a few more high-fives and laughs before following her silent request.

Ricky, arms outstretched, reaches her first. “Mom! Did you see that?”

“I _did_ see that!” Over his shoulder, Sharon nods to Emily, who’s still heaving breaths from her trip around the bases. “You might be a natural-born hitter.”

“Yeah right,” she laughs. Her unburdened happiness, so rare nowadays, feels like an extra victory.

As they set off toward the gym, Ricky cranes around, wearing a furrowed brow. “Hey, I helped.”

“Yes, I was impressed by your _maturity_.” Sharon squeezes his shoulder, suppressing a laugh at his efforts to take credit. “It’s a little Thanksgiving miracle, seeing the two of you working as a team, for a change.”

They meet her sentiment with twin groans. Even today, it’s too much to expect their unity to be anything other than short-lived. Still, she takes a moment to appreciate the three of them, strolling together in near-peace. With her cubs already pushing beyond the den, these moments might soon become more difficult to find.

As they step up to the door, Ricky breaks the tranquility with a muttered, “Can I have a jiggler now?”

Sharon shakes her head with a smile. “You can, once you’ve washed your hands and eaten some real food.”

“ _Ugh_.”

“Go on,” she nudges him inside. “I think they’ll be wanting to start dinner soon.”

As he races off, Sharon catches her daughter’s eye. She’s still glowing with triumph, more luminous than she’s been in a long while. “So, is this looking any better than turkey and stuffing at home, yet?”

“It’s pretty okay.” Her lips twist, an unsuccessful attempt at eliminating her smile. “I _guess_.”

“I’ll take ‘pretty okay.’” Sharon points her toward the restrooms. “Go wash up, and we’ll have some dinner. I think I saw some of your favorites in there.”

Emily spins, backing away as she asks, “Like what?”

“Like baked mac and cheese? Soft rolls? Spinach dip? Apple pie?”

“Okay, okay!” She holds up her hands in surrender and turns around, calling over her shoulder as she goes. “I’ll be right back!”

Sharon finds herself grinning after her, glad to see a glimpse of the carefree girl Emily seemingly tries so hard not to be anymore. Not for the first time, she wishes she could convince her daughter there’s no need to rush into the gloomy seriousness of adulthood. She’s sketching out a way to use today as an example in such a conversation when quick, purposeful footsteps up the sidewalk steal her attention. She turns to find Caroline Shaughnessy pacing toward the gym.

Her expression brightens. “Oh, hey, Lieutenant, I’m not too late, am I?”

“No, of course not.” Sharon takes in her dark pants, chunky patrol shoes, and navy t-shirt. She’d no doubt left her uniform shirt and badge in her car, along with her belt. “You just finished your shift?”

“Yeah, the Sarge gave us a little extra time today.” She shrugs. “I wanted to stop by and do my part.”

“You’re feeling up to that?”

“It was a light day. Well,” she glances upward, with a smile, “as light as patrol gets, anyway.”

Sharon squeezes her shoulder and guides her into the gym. “Yeah, I remember.” With a point toward the kitchen door, she adds, “If you go through here and to the right, I think that’s where most of the action is at the moment. Pete should be in there, too.”

“Sounds good.”

She trails Caroline to the kitchen, from there hanging a left. In the prep area, potluck food now lines the counter that held their travel-ready dinner plates. Most of the volunteers have already gathered into a line that snakes to the door on the far side of the room.

Ricky waves at her from the end of the row, next to where — of course — Jay and Andy are chatting, gesturing back and forth, seemingly gauging the turnout.

Jay motions Sharon over to stand in front of them, then shuffles Ricky and a freshened-up Emily to her side. With one final look around the room, he announces, “Okay, I think we’ve got everyone who isn’t working on clean-up.” With outstretched palms, he crooks a grin, “Indulge me in a brief prayer, and then we’ll jump in.”

The benediction is short, as promised, but displays Jay’s smooth, confident speaking style. He releases the group toward the food with an extended arm and a broad smile.

Once they’ve made it to the counter, the kids fill their plates with enough cheese and starch to make Sharon’s stomach ache on sight alone. But the potluck is their reward for helping, so she doesn’t as much as mention the vegetables they skip over. She limits her intervention to prying the serving spoon from Ricky’s hand after he takes three scoops of the promised barbeque mini sausages.

Further down the line, Emily leans forward, peering into a glass casserole dish. Andy follows her attention and explains, “That’s a frittata.”

“What’s frittata?”

“Kind of like an omelet. It’s got eggs, potatoes, red peppers, cheese…” At her hesitation, he reaches for the pan. “Here, I’ll get you a little slice. You’ll like it.”

Surprisingly, she holds her plate out for him. “Did you make it?”

“Yeah, that,” he nods toward other end of the counter, “and the baked ziti back there.”

Her mouth turns to an impressed arc. “Wow, I’ve never known a guy who could cook so much. I mean, other than Uncle Gavin.”

“Uncle Gavin, huh?” Over her head, Andy catches Sharon’s eye and chuckles, no doubt placing the name. To Emily, he says, “Well, hey, I say a guy who says he _can’t_ cook is just a guy who _won’t_ cook, and that’s a person to avoid, in my opinion.”

The kids pause at the end of the counter, staring at the desserts. Sharon nudges them onward, “That’s for later,” with a nod toward the table filling with volunteers out in the gym.

As he plops into a chair across from Jay and Andy, Ricky picks up the culinary thread. “I can cook!”

“Yeah,” Emily scoffs settling next to him, “PB and J, maybe.”

“No, it’s more than that! I can make mashed potatoes, garlic bread, mac and cheese, muffins… ooh, s’mores… Rice-a-roni…”

When the gap in his list goes long, Andy nods. “Not a bad start. Hits all the major carb groups.”

“Uh-huh, but now I wanna learn to make this.” Ricky jabs his fork into the pile of ziti on his plate.

Having spied a full helping of roasted vegetables in her own serving of the pasta, Sharon asks, “ _Really_?”

“Yeah, it’s so good!”

“Glad to hear it.” Andy’s eyes glint with warm mischief as they meet Sharon’s. “I’ll have to give your mom the recipe.”

Across the table, Jay watches the conversation, his attention darting back and forth as a smile turns his lips. Sharon distracts herself with a drink of lemonade before answering Andy’s offer with a level, “Please do.”

As the cleanup team comes in to tackle the potluck spread, Pete departs on a wave, blaming his still-stuffed stomach for skipping the festivities. Caroline hangs behind, wiping her hands on a towel as her face falls. “Oh, I didn’t know… I didn’t bring anything.”

Andy points her back into the kitchen. “We’ve got more than enough, Shaughnessy. Jump in there.”

The table goes more crowded, more raucous, more entertaining. The mix of LAPRRA members and Mount Carmel parishioners meld together as a makeshift family. For Sharon, it’s almost like being back east, home with her parents and siblings for the holiday. And, like those Thanksgivings past, conversation drags out over dessert and coffee, long into the evening. When Ricky’s eyes start drooping, she pushes her chair back from the table.

“Okay, kids, you ready to head home?” The tired, blinky stares she receives in response point toward ‘yes.’ “Let’s get up and moving, then.”

At the edge of her vision, Sharon notices Andy drop his mouth open, then close it again without speaking. When she angles to glance at him, he says, “Hey, I’ve got plenty of ziti left over, if you want— ”

“Yes!” Ricky, suddenly awake, makes a dramatic show of splaying his chest and arms onto the table. “I will eat it _alllll_.”

Even as he earns chuckles, Sharon squeezes her son’s shoulder. “Manners, Richard.”

“It’s not a problem,” Andy says as he stands. “I barely get a chance to eat at home these days, and I wouldn’t want it to go to waste.” With a crook of his thumb toward the kitchen, he adds, “I’ll pack it up for you.”

“I’ll help!” Ricky’s out of his chair before Sharon can stop him. _So much for being sleepy._

Emily, in contrast, hasn’t moved from sitting with her chin propped in her palm, elbow braced against the table. Sharon smooths her hand over the top of her ponytail. “That wiffle ball game wore you out, hm?”

“No, it’s just from,” she rolls her eyes as she pushes up from her seat, “doing stuff, _all day_.”

“Imagine that.” Sharon sighs a laugh, leaves Emily to collect herself as she spots her empty Tupperware on the long table where they’d served turkey and stuffing earlier.

Jay joins her. “Thank you, again, for recruiting more volunteers. The extra hands made a huge difference, and it’s always great to see young people getting involved.”

“We were glad to help. And thank _you_ for helping us out of our Christmas party jam.”

“Well, Andy gets a lot of ideas, as I’m sure you’ve figured out…” Jay trails off with a glance skyward. “But he can be a hard person to get to know, for some people. Or a lot of people, actually.” A grin turns his lips as he hands Sharon her Tupperware. “I’m always glad to see someone else who can crack him open.”

“Oh, um,” she curls the containers under her arm and hopes her face isn’t turning as pink as it feels. Has she, in fact, ‘cracked Andy open,’ over these last few weeks? Surely it’s been easier than _that…_

Sharon brushes off the reflection with a lift of her shoulder. “It’s amazing what being on the same side of a battle can do to people. Just ask my kids.”

“You have a point,” he laughs. “Regardless, I’m glad to meet you, and I hope to see you again sometime.”

“Likewise.” Sharon finds herself offering the answer without a thought. But, even after a blink of consideration, it feels right. Jay is an interesting man, and she _does_ hope to see him again, no matter what the circumstances might be.

Movement in the doorway steals her attention. Ricky exits the kitchen with a wide smile, grasping a good-sized container between his palms. He’s found his hoodie, which hangs open from his shoulders. “Got it!”

Rather than encourage him further, Sharon rolls her lips together until her urge to laugh has passed. “And what do you say?”

His head drops back with slack-jawed indignation. “I already said ‘thank you,’ Mom.”

“He did.” Andy steps through the door, carrying two familiar coats. He holds the pale pink one out to Emily. “I heard this belongs to you, ma’am.” After she takes it with a grin, he turns to Sharon. “And yours.”

“Thank you.” She hooks the jacket over her elbow, convinced the air outside remains warm enough not to need it. “I’ll get your container washed up and back to you when we’re finished.”

“Do that, and I’ll trade it for the recipe.”

“Sounds like a deal.” As Sharon points the kids to the door, their earlier conversation rises to her attention. With curiosity tickling up her spine, she angles toward him. “Andy, despite everything, I hope you’ve had a good Thanksgiving.”

“I have, yeah.” He rubs at the back of his neck as a faint smile tilts his mouth. “It might be hard to top, next year.”

Sharon meets this with a nod, a grin of her own. “We’ll see. Have a good night.”

“You too.”


End file.
